


She's not heavy

by Isidore



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Kidnapping, Musings About God and Death and Other Philosophical Shit, Muteness, Pregnancy, Slavery, Stillbirth, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:44:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 48,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10979781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isidore/pseuds/Isidore
Summary: D'Artagnan's in trouble. Alone in a foreign country, sole protector of the Queen of France and the future Dauphin, he has to give everything to keep them alive.The Insèparables are falling apart. They don't know where d'Artagnan is, or if their brother is even alive. But they have to keep searching (and keep pretending that the Queen's safety matters the most).Nothing will be the same after this.





	1. A Queen, autumn leaves and a musket

**Author's Note:**

> This work is the result of continual massive effort, and born of my sudden whim to form a relationship between d'Artagnan and Queen Anne, and to indulge in my passion for angst. Honestly I never meant to write the amount that this grew into, and I can't remember when the decision to start posting this came from. As I write this, this fic is being slowly updated, as I do my best to continue it around school and work.
> 
> Many thanks to AubinaSnapple, for sticking with me and calling me on my bullshit and continuity errors.

He wakes with a harsh gasp, hands flying to his throat. For a second he chokes on air, lungs spasming to life, before letting his hands fall to his side as he gulps in deep breaths, eyes fluttering closed. Five years and the nightmares still haunt him, sending him crashing awake every night without fail. He lets his head fall back against the wall. Beside him Porthos stirs, mumbling under his breath, heavy hand shifting to his thigh and squeezing it gently.

D’Artagnan desperately wants to say his name, wants to reassure him that he’s alright. But he can’t. He settles for carding a hand through Porthos’ curls, letting the larger man snuffle and curl into his side.

He hears a noise from down the hall, the hurried padding of bare feet on the floorboards. The door flings open with a whine and Athos stands with his hair unruly, shirt hanging half off one shoulder, main gauche clutched in his hand and raised, moonlight glinting off the blade.

“D’Artagnan.” He says in a raised whisper, his eyes dart around the room, assessing, strategising, looking for an enemy. “Another?”

He doesn’t deny it, just looks at Athos with his soulful dark eyes, gaze sad. He wants to say: _I’m sorry I woke you. I’m sorry for the wine stain on your shirt and Aramis’ constant worry and the fact Porthos refuses to sleep if I’m not in the room with him._

But he can’t. So he doesn’t. Instead he lets Athos slip into the room and kneel by the side of his bed and pull d’Artagnan’s head down to touch his. Athos’ fingers slip loosely around d’Artagnan’s wrists, never too tight or constraining, but covering the scars and resting on his pulse. Making sure d’Artagnan’s alive.

“Aramis didn’t want to crowd you, but he’s waiting just outside. We heard you wake.”

D’Artagnan nods, letting his hair veil him from Athos’ eyes. He’d figured. They all seemed to have trained themselves to wake with him. Sometimes this was even worse than back when they were oblivious and he’d dealt with it alone.

He knows Porthos isn’t asleep by his side, but lying with his head against d’Artagnan’s heartbeat, counting every thump. He knows Aramis is trying to figure out how many hours of sleep he can wrangle out of them tonight while he stands just out of the doorway, brow creased, eyes shadowed.

He needs to say sorry.

But he can’t.

 

**5 years 11 months ago…**

D’Artagnan’s horse moves familiarly underneath him and he lets a grin slip onto his face. Turning in his saddle he looks at the three men riding behind him. 

“Guard duty has never felt so good.” He crows, letting himself fall back against his saddle bags, back arched.

“You just have an unhealthy obsession with autumn.” Athos notes as he scans the woodland around them. Leaves of all shades of red and brown cloak the forest, muffling the wheels of the carriage behind them and the fall of the horses’ hooves.

“Practically a child.” Aramis grins in agreement. “It’s a bad image for the regiment when civilians see you leaping about in the leaves.”

“‘Cause you set a better one ‘Mis.” Porthos snorts, one hand wrapped in his horse’s reigns, the other resting comfortably against the worn hilt of his sword. “We all know you only get more _active_ ’n the autumn.” He winks crudely at d’Artagnan who snorts loudly.

“Remember when the Captain found him with that lovely young lady…” D’Artagnan presses a gloved finger to his lips.

Porthos clutches his sides with suppressed laughter. “The look on ‘is face. La belle fille with ‘er skirts hitched up an’ our Aramis with ‘is breeches ‘round his ankles—”

“On his _desk_ —” D’Artagnan adds, shit-eating grin spread across his face.

“While this is all very amusing, and I too am having a delightful time reminiscing about Aramis’ various autumn conquests,” Athos interrupts dryly. “We do actually have a job to do. The Queen can’t guard herself.”

“Oh, but you should see the way she handles a musket.” Aramis purrs and lowers his eyelids suggestively at Athos. The other man rolls his eyes.

D’Artagnan lets out a burst of delighted laughter, straightening in the saddle.

“Definitely insane.” Porthos says in a mock whisper, leaning towards Aramis, who nods seriously. 

Athos clears his throat meaningfully, and Aramis raises his hands ruefully. “Ok, ok… Tyrant.” 

The playful banter does stop after that and a sort of small peace invades the group. Each is alert, on guard, but settled and silent, watching and waiting. The procession through the forest is quiet, only six Musketeers on horses and the small plain carriage.

If d’Artagnan listens carefully he can hear the faint warble of laughter as the Queen converses with Constance. He remembers Aramis helping her into the carriage, a simple blue dress clinging to her figure. He remembers Aramis’ look of absolute devotion, shining in his eyes as her small, slender hand fit in his. Then radiant Constance, holding her skirts in one hand as she swung herself up into the carriage. Her red lips had quirked just before she’d settled, reacting to something the Queen had murmured and d’Artagnan had looked away, heart still just a little too fragile for the display.

He glances up to the road ahead of them and realises something, a chill travelling down his spine.

“Athos.”

He could tell the other man had heard it too, because he spurs his horse forward to catch up with d’Artagnan.

Hoofbeats, fast and thunderous and heading towards them.

Aramis has his rifle drawn and levelled at the noise, musket loaded and laying on his saddle and d’Artagnan tries to guess how many attackers they are facing, head tilted as he listens.

“A little less than thirty.” He says to Athos who nods slowly, gesturing the carriage to stop. The horses whinny and toss their manes as they still.

“They might not be after us.” Aramis says hopefully, arm steady, already sighting down the barrel.

“When do _we_ have that sort of luck.” Porthos replies, cracking his knuckles dramatically, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Keep that up and you’ll just scare them off.” D’Artagnan glances back at him, eyes glimmering with a mix of elation and amusement, hands busy with his flintlock.

“Please.” Athos says, calming cocking his pistol and twisting his wrists. “Porthos couldn’t scare a fly.”

“I’ve seen flies drop dead at one look at that ugly mug.” Aramis grins as they settle in an arrow formation in front of the carriage, horses shifty underneath them, pacing with the tension in the air.

“Enough.” Athos says quietly, ending the talk with that simple command. As if this was their cue, the riders finally come into sight, dressed raggedly and bent low over their steads.

The first shot rings out and d’Artagnan just smiles wildly. “Hostiles.”

Aramis looses his shot in the next moment and the lead rider tumbles from his saddle, hitting the ground with a spray of crimson. His musket picks off the next man, his legs crumpling at an unnatural angle beneath him.

Athos doesn’t wait to watch his target slump before pulling his rapier from its sheath, his blade singing death.

The riders are upon them before they realise it and each is fighting a battle for their life. Porthos is tugged from his seat, spitting mud from his mouth before he slams the offender’s face into his knee, feeling the wet crunch of his nose breaking.

D’Artagnan slashes a man across the throat, blood spraying his face, then hurriedly dismounts, sliding to the ground. He quickly dispatches a man with shockingly blonde hair, a surprised look permanently printed on his features with the slide of cold steel into his gut.

He turns swiftly on the spot, gauging the threat. One of the other musketeers stumbles by him, a dagger embedded in his eye, blood and clear fluids leaking down his cheek like tears. D’Artagnan sends a quick prayer of thanks that it was not one of his Inséparables.

The odds are roughly five men to twenty-three by this point, impossible odds.

A screech rips through the air and his eyes flick towards the carriage.

“No!” Constance’s voice is distinctive and he sees a heavy-set man struggling with an armful of thrashing cornflower blue.

He’s beside them before he realises, main gauche in hand. He brings the hilt down sharply against the side of the man’s head, his grip on the Queen loosening enough for her to wrench free, stumbling up against the carriage. He takes an instant to make sure she’s clear before grabbing the musket from his side. The man folds backwards and a mist of blood fills the air.

“Your Majesty.” D’Artagnan says quietly, differentially, turning to the woman. He looks her up and down for injuries, but she looks unharmed, if shaken, hands toying with the blonde hair that has slipped from her tight bun. A glance up to the front of the carriage shows the coachman’s body slumped forward, jaw slack.

“D’Artagnan.” She gasps, eyes fixed over his shoulder.

He swings backwards, following her gaze, and the attacker behind him catches the butt of his flintlock across the face with a crack. A man with a glinting sword slices his shoulder open as he pulls the Queen roughly behind him. He winces and blocks the next stroke with his palm, main gauche and his own rapier out of reach. The blade bites deep into his flesh as he grabs it and twists it from the man’s grip. He can feel blood, warm and sticky, dribbling down his arm. The man goes down quickly, sharpened steel vs soft flesh.

A hand drifts behind him as he makes sure the Queen is safe, protected by his body. He can feel the light tremors running through her, but he knows she is strong and not about to break down, endangering him and herself.

He fends off multiple attacks, the bodies strewn around him drenched with blood and he can no longer tell how much of it is theirs and how much is his. He licks his lips roughly, tasting metal and gunpowder. His vision blurs a little and he notice his side is wet.

“D’Artagnan!” A voice cries out and he belatedly realises it’s Aramis as he raises his sword to parry another’s with a clash of steel. His gaze flick sideways and he realises the Queen has been pulled from behind him by a leather bound man with dark malevolent eyes and a pistol at her pale temple.

The world seems to freeze around him, his blood running cold in his veins. 

“Lay down the weapon, Monsieur.” The man says quietly. “Or your Lady tastes a bullet.”

The Queen swallows harshly and d’Artagnan can see the fear in her eyes, her lips quivering. He carefully places his rapier and main gauche on the muddy ground, in amongst the footprints of dead men. In his mind he is ruthlessly calculating the odds of his speed and the reflexes of the man’s finger resting against the trigger.

“What do you want from her?” He asks, raising his hands to the man, trying to tamp down his anger at his own helplessness.

“Oh, I want her.” The man bares his teeth. “But I also want you.”

The Queen’s mouth opens and she screams his name as dull pain spreads from the back of his head. Black spots drift across his vision as he tries to stay awake and alert. He watches, helpless, as the man tears a strip of fabric from his shirt, gagging the Queen. He tries to turn his head, catching a glimpse of Porthos, grappling with an assailant, a wound on his face dribbling blood. He hears a roar of anger and pain, then everything goes black.


	2. A torn throat, a broken heart and muddied skirts

When the battlefield falls silent, all that’s left is guilt.

It takes them some time to discover the extent of the damage. The smoke winds between trees and obscures the worst of it, turns the bodies into shapeless forms, blurred beneath mud.

Aramis is wiping his blade on the grass, a thin slash though his shirt along his collarbone weeping crimson. He looks up, and that’s when he realises he hasn’t seen d’Artagnan since the other man had run to the Queen’s aid. This isn’t an odd thing. Battles often separate men and he knows (How could it be any other way?) that d’Artagnan is near. That he is fine. That the Queen is safe.

Aramis has always been good at denial.

He stands slowly and starts muttering a prayer for the souls of the fallen men as he walks towards the carriage. Two Musketeers had fallen on this field, in this attack, and their souls, above all, need peace in death.

Porthos is lying on the ground groaning, his face creased in pain and confusion. There’s a wet stickiness dripping from the base of his skull down his neck and he can feel a body lying heavy over him. The smell of blood and death pervades.

It’s surprising how familiar this situation is.

He shoves the body off of him and it slumps to the ground with a thud, limbs at odd angles, a knife protruding from its back that Porthos recognises as his own. He slowly unfolds himself, rising from the ground unsteadily. The throbbing in his head worsens the more he straightens, so he decides abruptly that standing isn’t for him and collapses back to the dirt.

There’s something niggling at the back of his mind, behind the agony, something vitally important.

But he doesn’t remember then.

Athos sheathes his rapier and turns slowly on the spot, surveying the wreckage of unnaturally sprawled bodies and the splintered and smoking remains of the Queen’s carriage. The battle fog is slowly receding from all of their minds and they move carefully, thoughtfully, now that they know there’s no more danger.

He runs a hand through his hair and, finding his hat placed jauntily on the knee of a decapitated body, places it on his head in a decidedly weary manner. Battle aches in his joints and the pull of various protesting muscles, but luckily he’s largely uninjured. He balls his hand into a fist, then opens it, working out cramps.

 _When did fighting become routine?_ he wonders, then shelves the thought, because at this point in his life, it’s one of the few purposes he has left and he can’t afford to over-think it.

A crow caws, lonely in the distance, and a chilly breeze starts up, leaves twirling in an intricate and temperamental dance.

D’Artagnan is in Athos’ mind. He hasn’t see any sign of the younger man and slowly trepidation builds in his gut, churning and boiling. “Aramis.” He yells, catching the attention of the other man, who is wandering through the dead, one hand on his pistol. “Have you seen d’Artagnan?”

“Wait, you haven’t seen him?” Aramis calls back. The worry is blatant, his posture changing suddenly.

He realises that when he saw d’Artagnan last, he was guarding the Queen _and his unborn son_.

The thought flits through Aramis’ head and goes as quickly as it comes. He has to focus on his Queen, focus on his brother, not on the baby that can never be his son. 

“Porthos?” Aramis asks.

“Moaning on the ground over there.” Athos gestures to Porthos’ prone figure. “He’ll be fine.”

“’at’s what you think.” Porthos’ gruff voice pipes up, faint. “Worse than a bloody ‘angover.”

“Concussions tend to be like that.” Aramis tries desperately to keep the atmosphere light as he quickens his search, swiping the mud and blood from dead men’s faces, trying to see past wounds to the person underneath. Suddenly there’s a pale face staring up at him with wide blank eyes. A bullet ripped his throat out, leaving a fleshy mess and a gaping hole.

“Found Baudet.” He says quietly. He makes the sign of the cross gracefully with two fingers and pulls his hat off his head, holding it to his chest.

Suddenly there’s a fit of coughing to his left. He swiftly replaces his hat with a flintlock, extending it towards the sound. He moves around a tree, keeping his distance, judging the threat. There’s the rustle of leaves, the faint squelch of mud, but no sign of aggression.

He moves closer and sucks in a breath.

In the midst of crumpled and muddy pink skirts lies Constance. Her hair is a mess, tangled with brown leaves, down around her shoulders and coughs wrack her form. There’s an obvious trail from the carriage to where she’s dragged herself. A deep purple bruise spoils her cheekbone.

“Constance.” Aramis says relief flooding his body. He rushes to her aid, helping her up from the ground with a respectful hand under her arm. She sways as she gets to her feet and sweeps her hair away from her face, a wild look in her eyes. “Constance, where is the Queen?” Aramis asks urgently, hoping wretchedly.

“They took her.”

Just like that, there’s something small broken in Aramis, a fracture in his facade, a tear in his heart. He draws in a ragged breath.

“D’Artagnan?” There’s that stupid, unfounded hope again, pressing against his ribcage.

“They took him too. I’m not sure if—” Her voice cracks and there are glistening unshed tears in her chocolate eyes. “He wasn’t fighting them.”

Aramis’ chest caves in. He knows it’s selfish, but this hurts more. Somehow this news is the collapsing of horizons, the stripping of safeguards.

He knows what the others think of him, what they think of his love for the Queen. The bittersweet truth is the dimming and dissolution of that love. He would die for his Queen, his Anne, but he would go to hell for his brothers.

And, even more selfishly, he doesn’t want them to know.

“Athos.” He whispers. “Athos.” This time it’s a yell.

As he leads Constance away from the wreckage he sees Athos striding through the trees towards them.

“Constance.” The man says, and there’s a lessening of the tension his shoulders. “D’Artagnan? Her Majesty?” He addresses this to Aramis.

“They were taken." 

Athos is better at hiding it than he is, the devastation. He just closes his eyes softly for a moment, tightens his mouth, and his eyes open sharper, impenetrable. 

“Which way did they go?” He asks, words grinding out of his mouth.

“I didn’t see.” Constance says and a single sob escapes her. Tears draw tracks down her cheeks. “He was fending of a least a dozen of them but one came around the other side of the carriage and he had flint and gunpowder and I—”

They all heard the explosion when it happened, but each had been caught up, engaged in brawls scattered through the forest.

“Not your fault.” None of them heard Porthos coming, shambling through the mud and littered dead. He’s slurring his words and listing slightly, but he’s up.

And he’s remarkably calm. Almost too calm.

“Don’t blame yourself Constance.” Athos adds quietly, he moves to Porthos’ side and pulls the other man’s arm over his shoulder, supporting him.

“Th’nks ‘Thos.” Porthos mutters and tussles Athos’ hair with a heavy hand.

“We can’t go after them now, can we.”

There’s a heavy silence after Aramis’ words. All had known it, somewhere, in the back of their minds.

Aramis had always been the one to give words to what the others wouldn’t.

“No.” And there’s an air of finality, like the last shovel of dirt on a grave. On what might as well be d’Artagnan’s grave.

They know that d’Artagnan will give his life to keep his Queen safe.

They are all selfish men.

“Porthos needs rest and medical aid. Madame Bonacieux needs to be returned to safety. We need more men to go after them. Treville needs to be notified that Her Majesty has been kidnapped and two musketeers are dead.” Athos lists solemnly. “The Queen is involved. We have to do this right.’

“D’Artagnan’s involved, we have to do ‘is now.” Porthos counters, but there’s little heat behind the words. What he’s implying — that d’Artagnan’s life is worth more than the Queen’s — is treasonous, and they’ve committed enough treason for a lifetime.

“Porthos…” Athos sighs heavily, the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

“I know Athos.” Porthos snaps. “But s’not right, is it?”

There was the anger Aramis had been expecting from him earlier, spilling over like lava, red hot. The injustice rings clear in his voice, the protectiveness. Porthos has never been good at hiding his feelings. He wears them on his sleeve, bares them easily. The only time Aramis doesn’t know what he’s thinking is when they’re playing cards. That’s when Porthos takes him for every penny he’s got.

Aramis has always envied that about him. 

“Of course not.” Aramis says quietly. “D’Artagnan needs us and we can’t be there for him. But if it’s consolation to anyone, the Queen is in the best possible hands at the moment. No matter where she is, if she’s with D’Artagnan, she’ll be fine.”


	3. An awful realisation and an act of brave stupidity

The cold prickles across his skin like a blanket, smothering, curling itself around him with icy tendrils. He’s alert in an instant and he catches up quickly, darting through his memories. 

The Queen is in danger. 

He has no idea where he is.

He doesn’t know if his Inséparables are even alive.

“Mèrda” He curses, slipping into his native tongue without thinking as he blinks a couple times, trying to get his eyes to focus.

“D’Artagnan?” A soft voice comes from beside him.

He turns his head slowly, pain radiating from the base of his skull. Blue eyes blink softly, framed by dark lashes, swimming in his vision. 

“La rèina.” He murmurs. “Ela… You’re alive… Cossí va?” He slips back and forth between languages as his head clears.

“D’Artagnan, in French please.” The voice replies, sounding slightly confused and raw.

The world is in focus again and d’Artagnan is alert instantly, feeling the floor soft and damp beneath him. He looks around himself, observing, assessing. He can hear the rattle of cart wheels, the soft murmur of deep voices from outside, the tread of horse’s hooves. Coarse rope binds his wrists and ankles, making it difficult to sit upright.

He takes stock of the situation as quickly as his mind can move. 

He turns his head, with another flash of pain, and she comes into focus, kneeling beside him, blonde hair falling in silky ringlets about her face, dress spread around her. “Your majesty.” He whispers. “Are you well? Have they hurt you?”

She lets out a breathy, slightly exasperated laugh. “D’Artagnan…” She says, but trails off like she can’t find the right words. “I am well, slightly bruised.” She is shaken, this much is obvious from her voice and the tremor in her small hands, “but otherwise unharmed,” she finishes.

D’Artagnan can feel his own injuries, blood and dirt sticky on his skin, his hand curled in on itself, a long deep cut running down his palm, the dull throbbing ache at the back of his head. He can feel the sharp pull of scabbed over flesh across his shoulder and something aches in his side. He hopes it’s not a broken rib. Aramis will kill him if he’s broken his ribs again. 

“How long?” He says, wary of the answer. The longer he was unconscious, the longer the Queen had been in danger, the worse his injury was.

“A while.” She says, trembling slightly. “It’s hard to tell, they haven’t let me out since…” _Since they stole her._

The cart is quiet for some time after that, d’Artagnan twisting his hands in his bonds, trying desperately to loosen them. The rough rope tears into his skin and after an hour or two he collapses back into the straw, blood slick around his wrists. 

All the while his mind is racing, turning over opportunities, trying to see some way forward, some obvious method of escape, something impossible, something insane. No weapons, the cart bare except for damp straw. No idea where the Musketeers are or if they know where he is. And the Queen, the Queen with an heir in her womb and a country to govern. 

It would devastate France to lose their queen.

 _What would Athos do?_ The question rings through his mind, it wraps itself around his thoughts, guides him.

 _What would Athos do?_ Porthos would use his fists, Aramis his charm, and Athos…

But Athos isn’t here. Porthos isn’t here. Aramis _isn’t here_.

He is.

And he has to win this. He has to protect the Queen. And, at all costs, he has to get her home. 

Suddenly shouts erupt from outside the cart and they come to a shuddering halt.

“Your Majesty.” D’Artagnan says, low and quick. “Whatever you do, don’t tell them who you are.” There must be something in the intensity of his eyes or in the urgency of his voice, because the woman just nods, pressing her lips together.

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything else as the doors are flung open and harsh light floods the room. He raises his hand, blinking against the glare. Strong hands yank him out and onto the ground, stones tearing at his knees. He manages to catch the Queen as she’s flung to the ground, softly holding her against his body and seizing her watery blue eyes in a hard gaze. She grabs his offered hand and lowers herself gently to her knees, then drops it like it burns and twists her hands together in her lap.

There’s a wide grey sky above their heads, chilled air wrapping around them. Trees tower over them, skeletal against the sky.

Autumn doesn’t seem so fun anymore, especially this close to winter.

Men surround them, broad-shouldered and heavy-set, steel in their eyes and on their hips. One of them pushes through the others, looking d’Artagnan and the Queen up and down with hunger. He is instantly familiar as the man who’d held the gun to the Queen before. 

His eyes are murky and wild, his lips thin. Muscles bulge along his arms as he grabs d’Artagnan’s chin in one hand, prying open his mouth. The Musketeer stays resolutely silent, unwilling to give the satisfaction of a noise of pain even as the man lifts his arms up, feeling along them, and d’Artagnan can feel fresh blood welling from his wounds. Whatever he finds seems to bring him satisfaction, because he smirks and drops d’Artagnan’s arms unceremoniously. The Musketeer bites his lip as pain slices through his shoulder.

The man wanders over to the Queen, pacing around her, eyes raking her top to bottom. Under the scrutiny, her eyes drift to the ground and she fiddles with the hem of one of her muddy blue sleeves. He cups her chin roughly, forcing her face up into the light. She whimpers slightly. 

D’Artagnan can feel the rage boiling under his skin at the sight of the man’s fingers digging into the Queen’s face.

“Hey.” He spits out, a growl humming in his throat. “Get your slimy hands of her, you bastard.”

The man switches his heavy look to d’Artagnan, mouth twitching. “Who are you, little rabbit, to be speaking to me in such a manner. You do know your mistress won’t have the chance to pay you for this bravery?” 

“Who am I? I am a King’s Musketeer.” D’Artagnan scoffs, channeling his anger into derision, as he points to the Fleur de Lis carved in the leather on his shoulder. He has no idea whether this is a decision that will haunt him. “Or can’t you tell.”

The man strides towards him. “You impertinent musketeer _brat_.” 

“That’s redundant, you realise?” D’Artagnan continues to taunt. He knows this feeling, this dangerous itch under skin, this person without any self-preservation, this person with a whip-sharp tongue and poison in his words. He knows how dangerous this is, that he’s playing with fire, that he’s drawing a target of his back. The problem is d’Artagnan has always loved to burn. 

The man grabs his arm and d’Artagnan swallows his pain. “Hey, mind the uniform.” He jokes quietly and the man shoves him. He lands with a crack in the mud, stones taking skin off his jaw. 

“You…” The man hisses. “I want you in good shape. You will earn me much.”

“You have a poor way of showing your concern.” D’Artagnan says, wheezing only slightly, straightening up to his knees, his bound wrists making it hard to balance. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

The strike comes lightning quick, and though d’Artagnan can read it in the lines of the man’s body, he does nothing to prevent the blow. “Speak to me like that again and I’ll cut your tongue out.” The man hisses.

Blood trickles down d’Artagnan’s chin and he grins wildly. “Sweet talker.” He murmurs mockingly and licks the blood from his lips.

The next blow makes him sway on his knees, but he only spits the coppery taste out of his mouth and catches the Queen’s eye.

She looks paler, yet more resolute and when she opens her mouth he can almost see what she’s going to say. He shakes his head minutely but she ignores him. 

“Stop.” 

The man turns again, this time to reassess the Queen. “So the mistress speaks up for her soldier.” 

“You have no idea who you’re talking to.” The Queen replies and straightens herself, bottom lip trembling. There’s the obvious influence of King Louis in the entitled way she talks, as if she thinks her name will excuse her from injury, death, or worse. “I am—”

D’Artagnan has a sick feeling in his stomach, something leaden and wretched. 

“You are nothing to me.” The man cuts her off violently. “Whatever title you were about to spout, whatever connection to Our Majesties you were about to tug on, I don’t give a damn.”

“The King _will_ find me and he will kill you.” She says desperately.

“Our King doesn’t care about you. He won’t save you." 

The Queen recoils like she’s been slapped. The man has no idea how close to home he hit.

“He might try.” The man laughs. “But where you’re going, no-one will find you.”

And just like that he’s done with them. “Put them with the others.” He growls.

Two men move behind d’Artagnan and haul him to his feet. He briefly loses sight of the Queen in amongst the crowd of men as they are moved a dozen or more meters from the cart where a group of people are huddled, clothes torn and stained, manacles around wrists and ankles. There’s a feeling like they’re hanging from some thin thread — whether it leads to sanity or animation is uncertain — a thread that frays with every passing day.

They have the look of dead and desperate men.

D’Artagnan is shoved to the ground, catching himself on his forearms. He lies like that for a moment, then levers himself up from the ground, flicking dark hair from his eyes. The Queen kneels beside him, composed but shivering violently, something weighty in the rigid way she holds herself.

“I apologise, Madame.” D’Artagnan says softly, the grievous weight of his own guilt bowing his head. “I’m afraid I might know why we are here.” He had an inkling, a nagging horrid thought.

A thought that turned to an awful reality.

“Slaves. They are slaves.”

The words come from the pale woman beside him, still playing with her golden hair, finger marks fading on her face, eyes shining with repressed emotion. 

“Yes.” D’Artagnan says and his hands involuntarily form fists, jaw going tight with fury. “And so are we.”


	4. Blue cloaks, burns and belts

The inn is small, cramped, and on the outskirts of a tiny village. At night, the cold and the damp are oppressive, the scratchy, threadbare blankets from the bed not enough to warm or even to block out the bite. The room is mostly bare, just a few stained straw mattresses, a rickety bed frame, a splintered grey wooden chair, listing with age, and a chamber pot in the corner. Their worn blue cloaks and weapon belts are slung haphazardly over the chair and a couple of extra flintlocks lent against the wall in an intimidatingly casual way.

Porthos wakes late in the day. Feeble grey light is streaming through the window and the warble of birds makes him grimace immediately. He curses, his head reverberating with pain. It fades quickly and he sucks in a deep breath.

“Porthos.” The voice is low and warm, rich with familiarity. 

“‘Mis” Porthos murmurs happily. “Playin’ nursemaid ‘gain?” 

“Only for you… And the other two blockheads in my care who can’t seem to stop themselves getting hurt.” Aramis replies quietly, a teasing edge to his voice. “I’m glad you’re awake again.” He glances over his shoulder. “And so is the grumpy bastard over there, even if he isn’t showing it.”

“D’Artagnan is out there, _alone_ , captive to those sons of…” Athos trails off in muttered insults and various creative curses.

“Athos, be still. You’re bordering on treasonous thoughts.” Aramis laughs quietly, but there’s a strain to it that he hides unsuccessfully.

“No sign of the Queen or d’Artagnan ‘en?” Porthos asks and slowly props himself up in the bed, the small change in altitude making his head spin.

Athos leans against the wall and twists his hands through his hair. Aramis stands suddenly, mutters something about a herbal tea and leaves. The door slams shut behind him, his footsteps trailing off down the stairs. Porthos feels like punching something, bad.

“Treville?” He queries quietly, and almost doesn’t expect a response. Athos seems a million miles away, warring within himself.

It’s painful when Athos gets like this, and Porthos has seen it many times before. Nights where he sat in the corner, table littered with empty bottles. Nights where he went home alone, shrugging off the offer of company. Days when he fought like the devil possessed him, fast and ruthless. Days spent on horseback, each alone with their thoughts, and Porthos could see him visibly close off from them.

“Musketeers are coming, reinforcements. They’ll escort Madame Bonacieux home and come with us in search of the Queen.” Athos’ voice is poorly measured, but he speaks.

“How’s Constance?” Porthos asks, and sits up properly, swinging his feet off the bed.

“She’s a remarkable woman, as always.” Athos mutters, with genuine respect and some exasperation. “She still thinks it’s her fault that they were taken.”

Porthos smiles half-heartedly, but he understands. Every part of him is screaming out in guilt. He remembers now, what he didn’t before. Remembers every moment of the battle.

“Injuries?” 

“Only superficial wounds, bruises and scrapes, but apparently, she has a bad burn down her leg.”

“‘Mis ‘ad a look?” Porthos cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders back.

“She won’t let him. When he tried last, Constance cursed at him and affected something to the point of: ‘You dirty Musketeer, you just want me to pull up my skirts for you.’”

“You do ’n awful impression of Constance.”

“Not the point.”

Porthos snorts harshly. “She din’t believe that.”

Athos sighs. “No… I don’t suppose she did, but she wouldn’t let him look.”

“Stubborn.”

“Unreasonably so.” There’s sense of weariness, of age, that Athos suddenly exudes. He acts older than he should, but perhaps that’s what being a soldier does, makes you an old man before your time.

Porthos knows that he saw d’Artagnan age before his eyes, turn from a young heartbroken man, to a battle-hardened soldier.

They are all soldiers, now, though he supposes that they must have all been something else before. They are all men with a burden on their soul and sins unconfessed. They are heathens, they are devout, abominations, children of God. They are messy and complicated, but they are soldiers, and it’s perhaps too easy to let that be _all_ they are. 

He knows he sometimes forgets himself. 

“You want me t’ talk to her?”

“You’re welcome to.” Athos says and glances out the window. “But a medic will be sent with the reinforcements, she might be more willing with him.”

None of them talk much in the following days. Aramis forbids Porthos from leaving bed, citing the concussion. Athos skulks around the room, Aramis cleans his pistols incessantly and they all wait.

“They’ve been gone for _three days_ and we’ve been sitting here like fools and traitors.” Athos explodes and slams his hands against the wall. Aramis is sitting by the window, fiddling with the trigger of his pistol. He winces.

“That’s another sous or two to our bill.” He mutters and Porthos feels a sudden bubbling of fury and sorrow in his chest.

“He’s our brother, ‘Mis.” He murmurs, “We’re allowed t’be angry.” He shucks off the blankets suddenly and sits upright, resting his elbows on his knees, placing his head in his hands.

“But she’s our Queen.” Aramis replies evenly. “She’s the one we have to save. As much as we hate it,” He swallows thickly, “in the King’s eyes, in France’s eyes, d’Artagnan is as good as dead. There’s no guarantee that we’ll even be allowed to…” He trails off, looking out the window and stands abruptly. “Riders.”

“Go.” Athos urges.

Aramis practically sprints out the door and down the stairs. 

“Musketeers?” Porthos asks, lifting his head.

Athos glances out the window, pulling on his jerkin. He turns back, and there’s a faint glimmer of hope in his stormy eyes. “Musketeers.”

There’s a shout from downstairs, out the window.

“Speak of the devil.” Porthos mutters. There’s a commotion, horses whinnying, men hollering to one another.

Athos straightens hurriedly, moving to fling open the window. “Aramis?” He calls. 

There’s a distant reply, barely audible from the bedroom, but Athos seems to get the message because he snatches his weapons belt up from the chair and almost makes it out of the room, when he stops and turns to Porthos.

“You’ll be…?”

“Fine, I’ll be down ’n a mo’.” Porthos stands unhurriedly, moving stiffly.

“Good.” Athos hesitates then moves determinedly through the door, buckling his belt with a practiced hand. 

There’s peace for a few minutes, an almost unnerving quiet. Porthos ambles around the room, lacing up his breeches carelessly and plaiting a patterned purple bandana slowly behind his head. He slings his weapon belt around his waist, checks his pistol, flicking its mechanism back and forth a couple of times with satisfying clicks, and sheaths his sword. He softly presses his fingers to his lips, then against his pauldron for luck. 

Slowly he makes his way downstairs, limping slightly, a thumb hooked in his belt. Stepping into daylight, he blinks a couple of times. Musketeers fill the small yard in front of the inn, pauldrons shining, cloaks fluttering their distinctive blue. As he exits they turn to face him and he’s filled with a sudden indistinct pride and hope.

The Musketeers are his family. In this yard are faces he recognises, men he trusts, swords he’d let guard his back. He’d trained with these men, fought with them, drunk with them, laughed with them, even (and he would only admit this after a bottle or two) shed tears with them.

And at their front, hands resting casually of the hilt of their swords, fierce looks in their eyes, his brothers. Everything he has, everything he is and ever will be, is theirs. They are bound in blood and blade, in gunpowder and hellfire, and worst of all, in heart.

That certainly is the most painful way to be bound.

But he can feel the missing presence, now more than ever.

Aramis steps forward. He seems calmer than before, composed. There even seems to be a glimmer of hope in his eyes. The arrival of men, the promise of action, seems to have spurred him out of his dispiritedness.

“Eleven men all up. Four to escort Madame Bonacieux back to Paris safely, seven to accompany us in finding the Queen.” He places slight emphasis on the last words, making his meaning clear. Officially they are departing for France, not their brother. “We have ten days then we must report back to the King.”

“Ten days.” Porthos echoes, frustration wells in his gut. “The King expects us to find the Queen in _ten_ bloody days.”

“Porthos.” Athos warns.

“No, Athos. ‘e’s our _brother_ , and we’re expected to sit ‘ere and pretend we care more about—” What he’s about to say next is muffled by Athos’ gloved hand pressing against Porthos’ lips.

“Porthos,” he hisses angrily. “What you were about to say is _treason_.”

Porthos bats his hand away and glares at him. “Fine. We’ll find ‘em in ten days. We’ll bring the Queen home.” His gaze shifts to Aramis. He looks back with reassurance and nods at Porthos.

 _We will find them, old friend_. He seemed to be saying. _We’ll bring d’Artagnan home. How could it be any other way?_

And that hope comes back, flooding through him, that dastardly fickle creature. Porthos knows that he can’t trust it, but he is helpless against its pull. It feels nice, it lulls him, it gives him the strength to say: “Athos?” In acceptance of the other man’s decision. 

“We leave in an hour. You make sure Constance is tended to, Aramis and I will assure the men are armed and ready to go.” Athos turns and waves an older man forward. “This is Douillard, he’s a trained medic.” 

The man in question has soft, kind features and a steady handshake. Porthos looks him up and down. “Constance might see ‘im.”

“She might.” Athos agrees, so it’s decided.

Porthos leads the man back through the inn to Constance’s room, their footsteps loud on the creaky floorboards. He knocks lightly and talks through the thin wooden door. “Madame Bonacieux? Constance?”

The door swings open and Constance stands in the doorway, rich brown hair cascading down her shoulders. She looks blanched and drawn, eyes wide and empty. The bruise on her face is a striking puce. “Porthos. Any news?” She speaks quietly, crisply.

“Reinforcements arrived. Musketeers are waiting downstairs to escort you back to Paris.” He steps to the side to reveal Douillard. “He’s ‘ere to have a look a’ your leg, before you leave.”

Constance yields quickly and moves to sit gingerly on her bed. Douillard follows and kneels beside the bed, speaking in gentle, comforting tones. Somehow he manages to persuade her to hitch her skirts up to her knee. The burn runs down the length of her calf, blistered and weeping. Porthos curses quietly at the sight of it and reminds himself never to let Constance decide whether she needs medical attention.

Douillard inspects the wound. “This will scar.” He says finally, blunt but kind. “And it will likely restrict full extension of your leg.”

“How close were you to the explosion?” Porthos queries. 

“Close enough.” She says decisively, and her hand scrunches her skirts into white folds. The dress is a worn thing, cream linen with vague stains. The innkeeper’s wife had gifted it to Constance on sight when they’d first arrived. It fits poorly, sliding off her shoulders and gathered around her waist with one of Aramis’ spare belts. The buckle shines dully, an intricate Fleur De Lis.

Porthos watches her as the medic spreads balm over her wound and wraps it tightly in white bandages. Constance doesn’t flinch, doesn’t glance away, almost seems to be deliberately welcoming the pain. And that’s when he gets it. Really it hits him over the head, and he wonders how stupid they were to miss it earlier.

“It’s not your fault Constance.” He utters, into the silence. “Stop punishing yourself.”

She looks up, and there are unshed tears in her eyes, and Porthos is struck by the notion that they are all hurting more than they let on. Athos, Aramis, Constance and himself, all just shoving the guilt and the protectiveness and the worry down deep, where it has less of a chance of hurting them.


	5. A soldier, a mother, and an escape

For the past three days they’ve been marching along the edge of the forest, trees on one side of the path, tall grey cliffs on the other. They travel constantly, stopping only when the night becomes too cold or their guards become too weary. The ice-cold chains chafe against wrists and ankles, the air nipping at skin and slicing through clothes. They trudge in unison, the clinking of the chains some bizarre and awful percussion to their march.

He walks behind her, dark hair curling in the mist, shirt translucent and clinging to his form. She can feel his eyes on her, constantly vigilant. When he gets the chance, he mutters jokes to her, makes comments about their guards, his displeasure about the weather. He tries to keep her grounded, talks about everything and nothing in a mellow, pleasant tone, words like honey. Somehow this warms her, helps her stand straighter, walk steadier, hold back the tears that threaten to fall. 

She stumbles several times a day, falling to her knees in the mud and grazing her palms on stones. D’Artagnan is always there to pick her up, to keep her walking, to shield her from the blows of the guards. More than once she’s collapsed, trembling of cold and pure exhaustion, and he’s picked her up, held her tight against his body and kept marching.

She notices it, when he pushes her his portion of food, when he encourages her to take a sip of what little water he gets, but she’s just grateful for a stomach that’s a little less empty. In the morning when she wretches up bile, wringing out the little contents of her empty stomach, he holds her hair back. When she’s done, she wipes her mouth and rearranges herself on the ground, curling an arm around her swelling abdomen. 

The surges of indignant entitlement come in hot waves where her spine becomes rigid and the words, _I am your Queen, how dare you treat me like this_ , are on the edge of her lips like rich red wine at the edge of a chalice. But he’s always there with harsh words of truth and soft words of comfort. 

“Your Majesty, tell them who you are and you ensure your death, along with your son’s. If they know who you are they _will_ kill you.” His eyes are earnest and expressive, his grip tight of her arm, his focus entirely on her. “The King will come for you, the Musketeers will come for you, but you have to stay safe in the meantime.”

“What do these men want with me? I am not fit to work.” She has read of slavers, of the awful things they do, the work they subject men to. But she’s a woman, a noblewoman, not bred for hard work.

A shadow crosses d’Artagnan’s face at her words and he answers only with, “I won’t let it come to that.”

In the late hours of today, with the sun blazing against the horizon in a flood of light and colour, they come to a stop in a boulder strewn clearing. Guards chain the prisoners to trees and set up camp. D’Artagnan watches them with his dark gaze as they settle against the tree trunk, ground cold and hard. She sighs in relief as she stretches her legs out and rubs her stomach for comfort. She thinks of the child inside her, growing and forming with every passing day. She is certain that he will be a great man and a great King.

There is a town only a few kilometres to the west of them. When the breeze blows in the right direction, she can smell the smoke of wood fires and horses, of cooking food and farmland. She tells d’Artagnan this in hushed tones, as they sit pressed together, side to side, the metal of each other’s cuffs burning through thin linen. She sees the faint glimmer of hope, a flickering darting light in his eyes, but something so strong it starts to burn away the darkness of the week.

 _This is it._ She tells herself. _This is our opportunity._

Just as the last rays of sun disappears from the sky, they are pulled up roughly from where they’re sitting by a guard. He unlocks the chain from around the tree and growls at them to build a fire. Splinters nip at her hands as she follows d’Artagnan’s murmured instructions and methodically arranges sticks.

She imagines herself lifting up on her tiptoes, standing on d’Artagnan’s shoulders, his hands wrapped warm around her ankles, and reaching up into the sky. She imagines reaching into the heavens and wrapping that last ray of sunshine around her fingers, winding through her hair, feeling it soft and glowing against her skin. She imagines sparking it with the hope from d’Artagnan’s chocolate eyes, making it burn again and smoulder through the dark of the night sky, a tendril of pure light.

She imagined feeling free and safe.

A week can feel like an eternity when you’re bound in chains.

The firelight flickers, highlighting the sharp lines of d’Artagnan’s face. He swallows roughly, licking his lips, flicks his soft brown eyes to her and back to the fire. Men crowd around it, laughing and talking. One of them holds a bundle of cloth and leather in his arms which he chucks carelessly into the flames.

The cloth catches quickly, flaring up, illuminating a symbol stamped into the leather.

A Fleur De Lis.

D’Artagnan watches as his uniform burns.

She keeps her eyes fixed on him, observing him with morbid curiosity as he tenses with a sudden anger which dissolves into an emptiness, blank eyes, loose figure. She feels her heart trip for him.

The leather shrivels in the heat and eventually catches, curling and crumbling into ash.

That night they sit huddled next to each other. Even though it’s not proper, even though she’s still the Queen and he is little more than a commoner, she relaxes into the warmth of his body. As she dozes off, she can’t help the feeling creeping up on her. Lying there in chains, surrounded by slaves, guarded by armed men, and by the side of a soldier, she somehow feels safe.

D’Artagnan wakes gently her near midnight, moon swollen and bright, peeking out from between the clouds. 

“Ana,” the word sounds awkward, apologetic. He’d begun calling her that, only after her explicit permission, in an attempt to disguise her identity. Every time he says it she gets a warm bittersweet feeling in her stomach. No-one has called her Ana in a long time. “Did you get it?” He murmurs.

She nods softly, and opens her hand. A slim rusting nail lies nestled in her palm. “They didn’t notice.” She whispers. 

“Well done.” He huffs out a breath, picks up the nail. Carefully, he lifts her wrists, cradling her hands, and inserts the tip of the nail into her cuffs. Picking the locks is a long process, extended by the need for quiet and the dim light of the smouldering fire. His hands are gentle and his fingers long and calloused, manoeuvring the nail.

“Who taught you how to pick a lock?” She whispers as he works, seized by a sudden curiosity.

The light catches his smile, a twist of his lips. “Porthos.” He answers quietly and the cuff falls open with a series of clicks into his palm, freeing her right wrist. “One of the first things he taught me, apart from how to take a blow.”

She smiles and twists her wrist, glad to be free of the cuff. The success makes her giddy, lets her relax.

“Who taught you how to steal, Majesty?” He whispers, an edge of mocking in his voice.

“My brother.” She replies and sorrow twists in her chest. “A _very_ long time ago.”

“In a different life.” D’Artagnan murmurs under his breath, like he _knows_.  

She can still remember those days, in cool rooms with high tiled ceilings or under the blazing sun, between white stone buildings. Corseted tight into a multilayered bejewelled dress, the pleated white lacy ruff starched high about her neck. She remembers her younger brother, Philip, four years her junior yet already trained for ruling and warring.

She remembers his teasing words, his small childish hands, already burdened with the thick golden signet ring that marked him as a Infante of Spain. She remembers them darting through crowds of nobles, filled with the thrill of shedding obligation and responsibility. Brimming with mischief, overflowing with the self-destructive urge of children suppressed by obligation.

They’d made a game of it, the number of buttons, of earrings, of keys hung on fine chains. Philip was clumsy but favoured in the court for his affability. He was rarely caught and easily won out with his small dimpled smiles.

“Look Madre!” He would cry and spread his hands, showing off pearl buttons and golden earrings.

She’d pretend to reprimand him, would march him to their siblings and make him empty his pockets on their floor. Then she’d grin, empty hers and they’d share the loot, their youngest brother just pawing at the treasures with ungainly toddler's hands.

She smiles distantly, her siblings’ voices ringing through her head. Truly that was another life ago.

“Ana.” D’Artagnan’s voice is quiet and insistent. She looks up and realises her cuffs are off, lying in pools of chains around her. “ _Don’t_ wake the others up. Get to the trees. The guards won’t see you if you move slowly and in the shadows. If I don’t come in five minutes, run to the town, don’t look back. _Stay safe_.” His intense gaze catches hers. 

Then she’s moving, her heart in her throat, sidestepping sleeping bodies. It feels like an instant, or perhaps forever, then she’s pressed against a tree trunk on the edge of the clearing. Her hands scrabble against the cold rough bark and she steadies herself, closing her eyes and breathing softly.

Footsteps crunch softly through the trees. Her eyes flutter open and she flattens herself against the trunk.

 _Please. Please be d’Artagnan. Dear God, let it be d’Artagnan._  

Suddenly a hand is clamped over her mouth and another around her wrist, panic rushes through her body and she feels herself freeze, petrified with fear.

“Majesty.” D’Artagnan murmurs. Relief crashes through her in hot waves. He waits until she relaxes before removing his hand from her mouth. “We have to go.” He leads her through the trees, hand still wrapped around her wrist. She watches her feet, controls her breathing and _prays,_ she prays harder than she ever has.

She cannot remember a time in her life when she felt this scared, this _terrified_. For _so long_ her life has been shove the fear down. Shove the anger, the emotion, the pain down. Don’t let them see the human under the crown, the woman behind the Queen. Never show them your weakness.

It is so easy to build armour out of scar tissue.

Here and now, when everything feels like it’s in flux, when she feels helpless and out of control, the armour is melting away. 

She still sits in denial. _There’s no way we won’t make it out of this alive_. She still has hope, or more accurately, she has _certainty._ In her position in the world, in her position in the kingdom. She carries the future King in her womb, she carries the current King’s trust. _Of course we’ll win, of course I’ll be back in the palace by the end of the week._

_How could it be any other way?_

It’s just a matter of time.

The moonlight casts sickly pale light and deep shadows that dance across the forest floor. She watches d’Artagnan carefully as he guides them through the trees, this man she’s entrusting her life to.

He came up with the plan as they sat, knowing only kilometres away was safety, this plan not of attack or of death, but of evasion and escape. She watched him as he outlined it quietly, she would steal the nail, wriggle it loose as they worked, he would pick the locks. Together they would make their way through the forest to the village. He seemed uncomfortable, frustrated with his inability to punish their captors. She supposed that if she held the power of life and death in her hands like he did, she would be furious. 

She’s never held the power of life and death in her hands like he does. 

Suddenly there’s footsteps again, crunching through dead leaves in a careless manner. They are too close all too quickly. The cocking of a pistol is deafening in the silence of the night.

“Well, well, well.” The voice is rough, gravelly, sliding around her in a sickly manner. “What do we have here.”

She twists herself around frantically and comes face to face with a beefy man, curls of brown hair hanging limply around his face. The flintlock hangs from his hand by his side and he brings it up to her chest. She stands, rigid with fear, one arm curled around her stomach, as if it could shield her unborn child.

Only in fear is she so foolish.

“I can’t let you do that.” D’Artagnan says calmly and steps in front of her, hands raised.

“You were trying to escape.” The guard says in a sing-song voice and steps closer. 

“Wouldn’t you?” He replies cordially, “Can’t really blame us, this whole marching in chains thing is a bit of a bore.” 

“I could kill you now, you and the little lady behind ya.” The man sniffs and steps closer menacingly. “But I’m a pragmatic man, you’re both worth so much more alive and kicking. I’ll make you a deal, musketeer. You go sit back down like a good little soldier, I’ll chain you both back up, and you can save me disposing of your bodies.” He glances behind d’Artagnan. “Though hers I wouldn’t mind so much.” 

She can’t help the disgusted shiver that runs through her. “Please d’Artagnan.” She whispers. “Do as he says." 

“Ana.” Fury is rolling off him in waves, muscles bunched like a predator about to spring.

“I can’t do this without you.” She whispers desperately. “Please don’t make me do this without you.”

“Alright.” He says finally. “Take us back.”


	6. A panicking King, a lost brother and a well-meant man

“I cannot _believe_ this.” The words come fast and hot, almost petulant in their spite. “My best Musketeers lose their _Queen_ and fail to recover her.”

“Your Majesty.”

“No, Treville. There is no excuse for this… This _inadequacy_.”

“Your _Majesty—_ ”

“The Queen and the future Dauphin are _gone_. Missing while under the protection of _your Musketeers_.” The King stamps his foot, face flushed with anger. “The Kingdom rests on the return of my Queen and you will not fail me again Treville.”

Treville stands straighter, indignant but silenced.

“Maybe if we didn’t ‘ave this ridiculous deadline in the first place.” Porthos mutters, clenching his gloved fist by his side. Aramis stands next to him, his hat pressed to his breast, brow furrowed as the King paces tempestuously in front of his throne.

Athos shushes him. “ _Porthos_.”

He can see the King’s worry, hidden under layers of self-righteous aggravation. For the first time, Athos begins to suspect that the King has affection for the Queen. 

 _Or perhaps_ , he thinks, his cynicism bitter in his throat, _he only cares for the future dauphin._

“Your Majesty, my men are doing as much as they can. We are dealing with a _highly_ trained and organised enemy, men who knew _exactly_ when and where the Queen would be.” Treville takes a step forward, uncompromising and somehow reassuring in his firmness. “My men searched the bodies of the fallen kidnappers, and found _nothing._ All tracks were erased by the time we returned. This is an enemy that knows how to clean up after himself, knows how to leave no traces, no connections, which is a dangerous thing.” 

Athos remembers it clearly, pawing through the pockets of corpses, his grey scarf wrapped over his face to block out the stench. Crows fluttered with ebony wings and raucous cries, long sharp beaks and curved claws tearing into swollen decaying flesh. 

Every minute he’d spent imagining d’Artagnan’s body among the others, empty of animation, empty of his infectious enthusiasm, empty of his skill and passion. Even though Athos knew he wasn’t on this field, even though he knew that d’Artagnan’s corpse wouldn’t be among these trees, he couldn’t help but feel a moment of overwhelming, unwarranted panic every time he saw another body.

“Your Majesty.” Treville rests a hand on the worn, bronzed pummel of his sword, rubbing his hand over it unconsciously, a nervous tic that Athos has noticed more and more over the past week. “At present the populace is quiet. The Queen was due to be away for three or four months, on a retreat for her health and the health of the future Dauphin. No one will have to know any different.”

“Are you suggesting we cover this up?” The King spits. He slumps down in his throne and twines his hands together in indecision. Athos can read the emotions warring across his face clearly. The King is desperate and aimless. 

Athos too feels out of control, like he’s spiralling. Every minute where he doesn’t know where d’Artagnan is, whether his brother is safe, he feels himself sinking deeper into his unsteadiness, his control slipping further and further from his grasp. They have no leads, no idea where to search, no clue as to the identity of the kidnappers.

It has been a long time since he felt this disquieted. 

But if anyone has the power to make him feel like this, it is one of his brothers. He can tell Porthos and Aramis feel the same way. Porthos has only grown more impatient and violent, and Aramis is praying more than he has in years. And if d’Artagnan were to be found dead… He can only imagine that they would shatter and burn together. He can’t imagine surviving that.

He shies away from that thought desperately and shifts in his stance, clasping his hands tightly in front of him.  

“I’m suggesting we avoid panic. I’m suggesting we avoid an upset of the kingdom, when everything could be fixed in a matter of days. I’m saying give my men _time_ and they will return the Queen, safe and sound.”

“And d’Artagnan.” Porthos mutters under his breath. Aramis sways slightly to bump Porthos’ shoulder with his own.

_Of course d’Artagnan too._

“Don’t disappoint me again, Treville.” The King says and there is something small and fragile in his voice. “Bring my Anne home to me.”

Silence sits solemnly in the room, the high gilded ceilings and cold intricately tiled floors echo with it. Suddenly the King seems lonely, sitting slumped in his throne in this vast empty room, his bejewelled buckled shoes tracing invisible patterns on the floor. Treville bows in the silence and they leave the King there, his white gloved hand resting against his lips, his expression empty.

The day is bright and clear as they exit the palace, blue sky arching over them. Athos settles his hat on his head with a deep frown as Aramis speaks. “What are we going to do?”

The question goes unanswered as the men stride through the winding cobblestoned streets, Parisian life bustling around them. Men and women go about their business as through the world keeps turning. Athos is startled a moment as he realises, for them it does. Their family is safe, their Queen is on a retreat, their King sits in his throne with his coffers full and a benevolent smile on his face. 

He finally speaks when they reach the dusty courtyard of the garrison. “We keep looking. We keep trying.” That’s all that’s left to them.

The others look at him. “We’ve been everywhere, spoken to everyone,” Aramis replies, a faint edge of desperation. Athos can tell he’s looking for a reason, any reason to keep looking, to keep hoping and praying and believing that they will come home alive. 

“Don’t exaggerate.” Athos sighs. “We’ve searched the area around where they were taken. We can always look further afield.” 

“My office.” Treville says shortly, and leads the way up the splintered stairs and through the door, closing it firmly behind them. He plants his hands heavily on the desk and lowers his head with a deep sigh. “At this point we must take action as if d’Artagnan is dead.”

It’s almost as if the temperature in the room lowers. Porthos growls and takes a step forward, anger shimmering in his eyes.

“You’d better explain yourself quickly, Treville.” Aramis says angrily.

“Porthos, Aramis, calm yourself.” The Captain says wearily and sits, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is what I’m talking about, you all — _we_ all — have an attachment to this mission that is unwise.” He rubs his eyes. “If…” He looks up to meet Athos’ eyes. “If you’re going to make it through this mission intact, all of you have to remove yourself from it. So do the other men.”

“Captain.” Aramis’ voice is gravelly. Athos puts a firm hand on Porthos’ shoulder.

“We _will not_ remove ourselves from this.” Athos says firmly. “Our _brother_ is out there, risking his life for _Queen_ and country.”

“And I’ll be _damned_ if any soldier in ‘ere or out there forgets it.” Porthos interrupts harshly.

Treville looks at them, his gaze solemn and nods slowly. “If I cannot dissuade you,” he says with a bone-deep finality, “on your _own_ heads be it.” 

He leaves the office with pain in his heart and a cacophony in his mind. 

The tavern that night is dim and smoky, the booze cheap yet effective. Athos stays in a corner, his hat tilted to shadow his face. He can feel his senses dimming pleasingly, his mind becoming foggier. Through the haze he can see Aramis and Porthos a few tables away, glancing at him with worry sharpening their features. The twinge of guilt makes him reach for his drink. He downs the rest of it, slams his cup down and gets to his feet.

The room sways for a sickening moment then settles enough for him to size up the occupants. There’s a muscled Red Guard at a table in the middle of the room, with a nasty scar pulling up the side of his lip. Athos is just deciding how best to rile him up when Aramis appears at his side and grabs his forearm, pulling it away from where it had strayed to the worn hilt of his blade.

“Athos, you’re drunk.”

“I’d figured that much out for myself, thanks.” He mutters, the sarcasm cutting through his words.

“I think you’re ready to leave now.” Aramis says firmly and seizes his upper arm in a tight grip.

“I’d ask you nicely not to do that but—”

“But you likely drunk your manners to death an hour back.” Aramis comments drily and gently steers Athos out of the tavern.

“So you managed t’ get him?” There’s a small smile playing over Porthos lips as he looks Athos up and down. “Who’s rooms?” He asks and slings a heavy arm over Athos’ shoulders.

“Mine.” Athos grumbles, “I have wine.”

“In that case, mine.” Aramis cuts in. He and Porthos exchange a weighted look over Athos’ head that he ignores with vindictive pleasure. 

Sitting hunched in a chair in the corner of Aramis rooms, Athos has sobered up enough to sink back into his sombreness. Thoughts of d’Artagnan flicker through his head, guilt and helplessness sitting deep under his ribcage. He cards his hands through his hair, tamping all of it down. He hasn’t lasted this long, through this much, by letting his emotions get the best of him.

“Athos, stop it.” Aramis says fiercely. “God damn you.”

“That’s hardly a threat.” Athos mumbles. “God and I have already been through our quarrels.”

“Athos.” Porthos says warningly. He’s sitting on the bed, pulling off his boots, linen shirt bright against the dark of his skin.

“All we have is us.” Aramis says and kneels in front of Athos, eyes dark and pleading. “We could lose d’Artagnan, we might have already lost him.” His breath catches in his throat. “I could not bear to lose you too.” He offers his hand and Athos grabs it, tight. He leans down, pulling Aramis up by the back of his neck to press their heads together. Athos closes his eyes softly and breathes in.

_I’m sorry._

He wakes up on the floor, his back to the wall, a headache pounding at his temples and the world sinfully bright around him. He can smell acid on his breath and hear Paris out the window, people cheerful enough that their existence might merely be to ruin his temper.

“So sleeping beauty awakes.” Porthos’ voice is a distant grumble. He sets something down with a thud in front of Athos and grabs him by the back of the head.

Suddenly his face gets plunged into ice cold water. He pulls himself up, spluttering slightly, water running in rivulets down his body. “Thanks.” He mutters and pushes his dripping hair away from his face. 

Porthos chuckles and Aramis tosses him a cloth.

Treville hardly looks up from his work when they enter his office, pressing a golden seal into molten red wax on a folded piece of parchment. “The King wants Red Guards to join the search.”

“He would ‘ave the search lead by brutes.”

“Porthos, it is far too early in the morning for a lecture in politics.” Treville sighs. “It’s the Cardinal’s wish more than the King’s. In any case, we haven’t got a choice in the matter. You just have to allow a few of his men to join your company in the search.”

The three men share a look and come to a silent consensus.

“We won’t make trouble… _As long_ as they are an asset.” Athos affirms.

“Keep me informed.” Treville says and pulls a letter from the top of the stack, unfolding it with a crackle of parchment as he speaks.

“What if we’ve been approaching this wrong. What if they weren’t after the Queen. We’re assuming the kidnap was intentional. Perhaps it wasn’t.” Athos says quietly. He’d been thinking about it all night. The nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

“Athos…” Treville murmurs.

“What if instead of looking for the Queen, or even a noblewoman, instead they were looking for people.” Athos proposes.

“If we hadn’t been musketeers, they would have overwhelmed our forces.” Aramis interjects thoughtfully. “They could have easily taken on six guards, a noblewoman and her lady in waiting. Anyone less trained, with less experience, they would have been killed or captured without fuss.”

“What if they thought they could make the entirety of our party disappear en route. No-one would know. The back roads are dangerous, no one would suspect foul play.” Athos says.

“Are you suggesting human-trafficking?” Treville says finally. 

“Guards and soldiers make good labourers, noblewomen and ladies in waiting can be moulded to maids.” Porthos says gruffly. “It’s not uncommon.” He rubs a hand over his face. “If that’s the case…”

“Then d’Artagnan and the Queen are in more danger than we thought.” Aramis finishes.

“It’s uncommon in Paris. We haven’t had an incident of the sort in years, and it has always been covert, snatching drunks from the streets.” Treville snaps. “And the likelihood of this being accidental? This is the _Queen of France_. We cannot assume _any_ attempt on her safety as aleatory.” 

“So you’d have us continue to scour all of France for a kidnapper who hasn’t asked for ransom, hasn’t provided clues to their whereabouts, hasn’t held the Queen’s severed head up and screamed anarchy.” Athos fumes.

“Every day spent like _this_ , every day where we must defend ourselves to the King, where we scheme and play politics, every day where we retrace our steps at the beck and call of an impotent King, where we must remain passive, is a day where we further lose our tempers. You think we’re irrational _now_? Get us on the day where we find the Queen’s _body_ lying in a ditch, or, God forbid, _d’Artagnan’s_.” Aramis yells and slams his hand on the table.

“Well, let us hope that day never comes.” Treville says, eyes hard as flint. “Now, I believe you have somewhere to be.”


	7. A man of avarice, a purse full of lives, and a decision of inaction

The man comes early in the morning, weak sunlight filtering through emaciated trees, grey branches reaching up into the sky, creaking plaintively with each movement. He’s young and fair-haired with a slight limp, a purse that clinks heavily with each lopsided step, and a mouthful of foreign words.

He reeks of greed and immaturity.

They never see the exchange take place, never know exactly what bargain is made, nor how much their servitude is worth, but moments later this man owns their freedom.

They are moved swiftly and roughly into a cart, packed tight together. Never has their worthlessness been more obvious. They don’t travel long before the man is pulling them down off the cart and lining them up beside it. His hands feel too soft against d’Artagnan’s skin, his grip weak. But there is something about this man, this soft man, dripping with avarice, that screams dangerous.

D’Artagnan can feel Ana beside him, her shaking shoulder pressed against his. She looks slight and vulnerable, in her thin blue dress, dark circles under her eyes. She has a subtle hand on her stomach, the other bunched into a fist by her side. Her chin is raised, and he can tell she’s trying desperately to retain any shred of dignity, as wandering eyes move over her.

He can feel disgust coiling in his stomach. Helplessness and abhorrence. He’s itching for a blade or a pistol, anything that could bring a swift and deadly finish to this awful situation. His head is whirling, thoughts battling desperately against each other. 

How did he let it get this far?

How can he fix this? 

How can he save her?

Failure preys at the edge of his answers. He bears guilt like a cross.

But he can’t do anything.

Manacles bind his wrists, the insides wet and crusty with his blood. Chains rattle around him, thin and starved faces looking down, defeat in their eyes. He reaches beside him and grabs Ana’s fist, small and cold cradled in his palm. It uncurls slowly and wraps around his in return.

His mind keeps moving, he weighs action against consequence. He keeps coming back to the same answer, the same conclusion. No matter how this plays out, no matter what he does, he can’t help but think this is the end.

And if that’s what it takes to save her, to save the Queen, he will make that sacrifice.

The man paces in front of them, looking them up and down, his expression devoid of sympathy.

“Ana.” D’Artagnan bends down slightly to whisper in her ear. “Move your hand.” Under no circumstances will he allow the safety of the Dauphin be compromised by a thoughtless gesture.

She blinks up at him, confused, but lets her hand slip to her side, fiddling with her dress.

“You will address me as Master Miguel.” The man is speaking now, his voice slippery and malevolent. The French trips off his tongue, ungainly with the foreign accent. “You will not talk unless addressed to by me or my father. You will complete the tasks set to you without question and without fail, or you will be beaten. If you continually fail…” He leaves the sentence hanging and a stray hand curls around his whip. Tension builds in the long silence.

“Well?” D’Artagnan says intentionally abrasively jovial. He carefully drops Ana’s hand and leans away from her. “What happens? We’re on the edge of our seats here.” 

He’s seized the focus of the group. Miguel’s eyes flick to him, quick as a whip, and a nasty sneer spreads slowly across his face.

D’Artagnan can almost hear Athos berating him.  _Reckless. It’s like you’ve never heard of self-preservation._

“Well, _boy_. Step out of line again and you’ll find out.” D’Artagnan watches as Miguel’s hand tightens on his whip.

D’Artagnan fixes a smile slowly on his face. His heartbeat is roaring in his ears and he can feel that reckless urge spreading though him.  _How dare this man? How dare he trade people’s lives for currency._ He thinks of Porthos, of his history with slavery. He thinks of children he’s met, men and women, orphaned, widowed, scarred by the practice. By  _God,_ he wants to slit this man’s throat.

But he can feel Ana’s warmth by his side, her small hands scrunched into fists, holding her breath. He can almost see her bottom lip quivering.

It would be so easy, to just throw it all away.

But he can hear his brother’s voices in his ears, feel them by his side. He can almost see them, fighting every step of the way to his side.

It would be so easy to make this a bloodbath, give his life in one heroic moment.

By  _God_ , he wants that so badly.

He looks away, frustration making him clench his jaw.  _For the Queen._

“ _Nothing_ to say to me.” Flecks of spit punctuate Miguel’s words. “Good boy. You’ll learn your place soon enough.”

_ For the Queen. _

That night they settle down in straw, surrounded by strangers and stone walls. There are whispers, soft whimpers and sobs from the far side of the room and Ana curls into a ball with her hands over her ears. D'Artagnan pretends he doesn't notice when a silvery tear falls down her cheek.

He settles himself in front of where she lies in the corner, reveling at being free of the chains. He spends a moment inspecting his wrists. They're slightly swollen, raw and fleshy, crusty with dried fluid and blood. He can't help but think they'll scar. He turns his hand over and checks the deep gash on his palm. He wishes he had bandages, spare cloth, anything to wrap them up with.

He wants to look over Ana, check her injuries, but he can’t imagine how to broach the topic, or that she would allow it. Even now, in a situation that almost demands physical intimacy and a lack of barriers, he is reminded that she is the Queen of France. She is so far above him in status, it is almost unimaginable.

He misses France suddenly, like a stabbing pain in his chest. He almost chokes on  _want_  of it. He misses his home in Gascony, his farm, even though he knows it's little more than ashes now. He misses the garrison, his new home. The men there are his family now, his ragtag group of men, any of them able to kill you as soon as look at you.

He misses his father. In the quiet of his uncertainty, in this odd place where he is incapable of action, but free of chains for the first time in almost a fortnight, the pain slips in. He hasn't thought of his father in months, but the hurt still manages to disorientate him. He hasn't had the chance to mourn him, hasn't had the chance to put the memory of Alexandre to rest. He haunts the corner of d'Artagnan's mind, on the edge of every memory, lingering long after death.

So quickly, d'Artagnan had been swept into the Musketeers, into gunpowder plots, into the Royal court, into brawls and fistfights and duels. He didn't have time to think, to process anything. And here he is, the sole protector of the Queen of France. The only thing standing between her and the rest of this cruel, dark world.

The weight of his responsibility feels so tremendous in this moment. He doesn't know what to do. The panic and the aching sadness overwhelm him, stripping him of his defenses. 

He puts his head in his hands and twines his hair between his fingers.  _It's fine. You're fine. Be fine_.

There's a noise to his left and he looks up. There's a young man with dark wiry hair cropped close to his skull. A myriad of scars are visible from the gap in his shirt, slashed across his chest, pale in the dim light. 

"You spoke back to Miguel." He says quietly. There's something in his voice, awe, fear, respect. “The others that were with you, they told me.”

D'Artagnan looks him over, notes his malnourishment, the bags beneath his eyes, the hard set of his mouth.

“How long have you been here?” He asks, and shifts to place his body between the Queen and the young man.

“Three years.” The slave whispers. “You get used to it.” He adds at d’Artagnan’s look of outrage and pity. “You’ll get used to it.”

“No-one else speaks back to him?” D’Artagnan asks carefully. “Never?”

“They are scared. The longer you’re here, the more scared you get.”

He has no idea how to respond. Everything he can think of saying seems meaningless. He lets his hand drift behind him, his fingers floating over Ana’s still form. She’s asleep, her breaths deep and regular.

He has to find a way to save her from this.

“What’s your name?” He asks finally.

“Nicolas Viel.”

“You’re Parisian?” D’Artagnan asks, slightly stunned. It was one thing for the young man to be able to speak French, it was another to be learn that he too had come all the way from Paris.

“Born and bred.” There is a note of dull pride in his voice.

“How did you get here?”

“I presume, the same way as you.” Nicolas replies. “Are you a soldier, monsieur? The others say that she is your lady, that you look after her.”

So they’d noticed. Unease creeps up d’Artagnan’s spine, how much had they observed? “I am a soldier. _She_ is none of your concern.”

“If you say so.” Nicolas has a knowing look in his eye.

D’Artagnan just looks at him. His unease multiplies, distrust starts to kick in. “Why are you here Nicolas?”

“I make it my habit to welcome new workers.” He inclines his head. “They tend to be _impulsive_ in their first month. But the actions of one person have an impact on _all_ of us.” The warning is very clear.

“I understand.” D’Artagnan nods. “I won’t cause trouble.” He has no intention of keeping that promise.

Nicolas nods. “Remember that tomorrow. The first day is the hardest.”

“What happens tomorrow?” He asks quickly, but Nicolas has already moved off, and d’Artagnan is unwilling leave the Queen’s side.

He starts to think again, go over their options. Any attempt at escape would put the Queen’s life in peril. The Musketeers are sure to be on their trail, if they just stay put, stay safe… It seems like the only option right now, as much as it infuriates him.

_ For the Queen. _

He dreads to think what tomorrow will bring.


	8. A silver needle, a contagious laugh, and the exhaustion of hope and sorrow

The knock on her door comes early in the day, the sun barely peeking over the peaked rooftops of Paris. She looks up from her work, abandoning it mid-stitch, with the silver needle sticking out of the heavy fabric. She stands slowly, laying the sewing down carefully on the table, and grabs the cane (she still refuses to think of it as hers) from where it leans against the table. With every step the wound on her leg pulls and she winces with a fresh wave of pain. The journey to the door is an arduous process, accompanied by particularly unsavoury language and not a few acts of blasphemy. She finally reaches it, turns the key in the lock and swings it open unhurriedly.

Aramis, Porthos and Athos stand at her door, looking solemn and worse for wear. She notices dirty bandages peeking out from under the worn leather of doublets, sleeplessness like bruises under eyes, unkempt beards. Her heart stutters in her chest. _Why are they back in Paris?_

“Bonjour, Madame Bonacieux,” Aramis says politely, cautiously, quiet obviously forcing a smile onto his face. He inclines his head. “Comment allez-vous?”

“Please, Aramis, don’t be so formal.” She sucks in a breath, fighting the pain throbbing in her leg and her misgivings. “Well.” She motions them in, impatiently. “Don’t just stand there, come in.”

Aramis starts a little, almost like he wasn’t expecting the welcome. She turns her back to them, carefully moving back into the apartments, trusting that they’d follow. She’s only taken a couple steps before Porthos appears at her side, offering his arm, which she gratefully clings onto.

“Merci.” She mutters, her neediness stinging her pride. The men position themselves awkwardly about her kitchen as she gathers cups and a bottle of wine. “Sit.” She orders sternly, once the uncomfortable silence has gotten too much. “My goodness, you boys, pull yourselves together.”

They do as she asks, Porthos cracking a faint rueful grin that at least _seems_ genuine, and she pours the wine carefully, her hands shaky with pain. She sits herself down with a tiny sigh, leans the cane against the table and gives them all a flinty glare.

“Now, one of you will give me an explanation of your countenance this instant, or I _swear— “_

“Calm yourself Constance.” Athos interrupts mildly, making a movement as if to reach out to her, but it is aborted swiftly and he wraps his hand around the wine instead. Aramis shoots him a weighted look that goes largely ignored, and Porthos clears his throat. “We bear no news, bad or otherwise.”

It’s a bittersweet feeling, the frustration at the lack of knowledge, but the relief of: _he’s not dead yet. We don’t know he’s dead yet. He might not be dead._

_He can’t be dead._

She looks at Athos, his hair curling around his ears, eyes serious and blood-shot; Porthos’ lack of enthusiasm, the weight that seems to bow his shoulders; Aramis’ gaze that can’t seem to settle, his hand straying to the rosary around his neck. She looks at them all, looks at them properly and she can’t help but think, _they will never have relief._

It is odd to think that, to be so pessimistic, but to keep hope alive is exhausting, and by God is she tired.

Because what if they never find him, what if they _can’t_ save him this time? What happens then? Do they just keep looking?

She can’t think they ever stop looking. She can’t think she’ll ever stop hoping. Maybe it’ll be the exhaustion that finally does them in. It’s so odd. One day he’s there, their d’Artagnan, fighting by their side, that irresistible smile, that heart so full of passion. The next he’s just gone.

Maybe they’ll never have closure.

“Constance?” Aramis says quietly.

“Yes? Yes.” She looks up, pulls herself back into the present. She realises she’s shaking, tremors running through her. She grabs the edge of the table and digs her fingertips into it. Slowly, she pulls herself back together. She notices them exchange looks and ignores it, tucking her hair behind her ear and flattening her dress over her lap in unconscious movements.

“We’re departing Paris early tomorrow.” Athos says finally. “We must continue the search for the Queen.” The emphasis is subtle, easily missed.

She nods carefully. She misses Anne too, worries for her safety, both as the Queen and as a friend, but she is in good hands. “Do you have any new information? Any leads?”

The three Musketeers again exchange one of those wordless glances, and she just _knows_ they’re having a silent conversation right in front of her.

“No.” Aramis replies, and she just _knows_ that he’s lying, she can read it smeared across his face, _is he even trying?_

“Don’t lie to me. _Please_. I’ve earned better from you.” She says. There’s a tight lump in her throat. “Tell me what you’re hiding, or at least _admit_ that you’re lying to me.”

There’s a moment, a pause, that’s enough for the tightness in her throat to almost choke her.

“We think it’s slavers.”

“Aramis…” There’s a grumble of warning in Athos’ voice.

Porthos’ hand forms a fist against the table. “She should know, ‘thos.” A tense moment follows, then Athos nods his consent wearily.

“The Queen and d’Artagnan, we believe they were taken by slavers.” Aramis continues. “We have some suspects, rumours of an underground human trafficking operation in the north, some smugglers along the west coast that have been known to take travelers…” He trails off.

“When we depart Paris, we’ll have the full support of the King and the Cardinal behind us.” Athos says quietly. “Red Guards will accompany us in the search. We’ll be trying the large seaports first, attempt to cut them off if they wish to leave the country in a ship.”

“The borders are on lockdown. No-one is getting in or out of country by land."

“If we’re right, the kidnappers ‘ave no idea who the Queen is. She’s not in danger of being assassinated.”

“However…” Athos’ hand tightens around his cup.

“She and d’Artagnan may be nothing more than workers to them, which means they have no leverage over their captors. They’re helpless while they’re in captivity, and if they attempt to escape it’s likely they’ll be killed instantly.” Aramis finishes, his voice gravelly.

“Oh.” She says and hides her face behind a hand. She had asked for the truth and they had given it to her, enough of it at least. Enough to ease the lump in her throat, enough to make her unsure whether the truth is actually something she wants to know.

“We don’t know this for certain.” Aramis rushes to reassure.

“But the kidnapper hasn’t come forward yet, has he?” Constance says dully.

“No.” Aramis murmurs.

“And if they had an ulterior motive, they would have?”

“Yes. To ask for a ransom, give a list of demands. It’s been more than two weeks, there would be no reason to wait.”

“Oh.” She feels like crying. She’s so _tired_. “Well, I have to go to the market for a few things…” She says, quickly changing the subject. This is where they can make their excuses, leave her be without fuss or guilt.

“We’ll escort you.” Porthos cuts in. “In fact we should grab a few supplies.”

“Very well.” She murmurs, aware that she has no choice, and perhaps even grateful. She stands, runs a light hand over her hair. “I’ll be with you in a moment, messieurs.” She only takes a couple of steps before the pain catches up with her and she stumbles. She curses under her breath and flings her hand out, scrabbling for her cane. Instead her hand latches onto a leather-bound forearm.

“Constance.”

Athos’ rough voice is right in her ear and her cheeks turn red with sudden shame. _How weak must she look?_ Torn up over a man who’s heart she broke, who she rejected, incapacitated by an injury, desperate for company, practically helpless. Shame sours quickly to anger and self-loathing, a wave of anger that burns in her chest. 

“Constance?” Aramis says gently, leaning down to look her in the eye. “Your leg is paining you, isn’t it? Has a doctor looked at it recently?”

“I’m fine.” She snaps. “I’m _fine_.” And it feels like she’s trying to convince herself more than anyone. She rips her hand away from Athos’ arm and limps heavily the whole way to her room, her bottom lip quivering. She can hear them behind her, sense their eyes on her back. She grabs her cloak from a hook by the door, and lets it settle over her shoulders in a comfortingly familiar embrace.

She breathes in deeply and she can smell _home_ on it. Bonacieux’s heavy cologne, her own flowery perfumed oils, the scents of Paris, freshly baked bread and fresh blood, and buried deep under it all, a trace of d’Artagnan. He smells of days of guilt and passion, of lessons in warfare, of sunshine and stolen kisses, when love had buoyed them and they thought forever meant _forever_. He is closer to her than ever, and it hurts less when it’s like this.

She closes her eyes and she stills, peaceful for a moment.

_I’m fine._

And she doesn’t think she’s lying.

She clings to Aramis’ arm as they walk through the busy streets of Paris, on his insistence, her leg protesting with every step. She hasn’t been outside in over a week, nearly bedridden by her husband’s demand, and the air is fresh and cool against her face. Slowly her mood lightens as the sun warms her and the sound and smells of her Paris envelope her.

The marketplace is bright and busy, so many cheerful people living their lives, just existing. It is disconcerting, the faces free of distress, wives with husbands, children darting between skirts. Her hand tightens on Aramis’ arm and he looks down, concerned.

“Are you in pain?” He asks, halting the others. 

“No, no.” She lies. “I just…” She chokes up a little with the feeling, something building in her chest. “Everyone’s so…”

“Happy.” Athos says succinctly. “They are so happy.”

“It _always_ seems that way.” Porthos mutters and gives a dry smile.

She doesn’t answer them, because surely what she feels is worse than bitterness at another’s happiness. It’s joy. Bright and almost bursting out of her. 

Everything has been turned upside down, a silent revolution, blood has been shed, yet the world still turns. The people still laugh and cry, unaffected as yet by the suffering of their Queen. They live their lives, are agonised by their own tragedies, and remain unaware. She’s glad of their innocence. She wouldn’t wish the turmoil of politics and the distress of battle on anyone.

She guides Aramis over to a stall selling handwoven cane baskets, intricate and delicate-looking, though the pretty young woman tending the stall assures her of their sturdiness. She doesn’t need a basket, and it’s an expense she can’t afford, but she has an urge to _touch_ and reaches out a hand to trace the patterns of the cane. Aramis traces the curves of the vendor with his eyes.

She drags the Musketeers from stall to stall, insisting they try pastries and fruits, pieces of season meat that light up her taste buds. She pretends she doesn’t notice when Porthos uses a slight of hand to steal some sweet flaking pastries for them, and she pretends she doesn’t notice as they become more tactile, that Porthos is feeding Aramis with his fingertips, and there’s a smile tracing Athos’ lips as he smacks Porthos on the shoulder to berate him about stealing.

“As if the Red Guards haven’t enough excuse to arrest us _already,_ you insist on making us complicit in _theft_.”

She lets the light pastry melt on her tongue and she can barely feel the pain of her leg. She can’t help it, she laughs. Giggles and clutches her sides and just _lets go_. And apparently, laughter is as infectious as the plague because soon enough Porthos is chuckling, Aramis sniggers and even Athos is pressing a hand over his curved lips. 

There’s a lump of guilt in her stomach, but it’s not enough to counteract the heady levity that fills her from crown to toe. _To be happy whilst d’Artagnan is in trouble…_ The laughter bubbles up again and washes her guilt away, she can’t think straight and doubles over with it, her hand on Aramis’ arms tightening to balance her.

_Laugh, or you’ll cry._

They are there for a long time, for what feels like an eternity, just basking in the afterglow of joy. Constance sits with her back pressed against a wall, face tilted up to the warmth of the sun, her fingers playing in with strands of her hair. Porthos is next to her, Aramis slumped his lap and Athos leaning with his head against Porthos’ shoulder. She watches them, relaxed into each other, their chests rising and falling in unison, sunlight playing off dark curls. 

 _How lucky they are_ , she thinks for a bitter, selfish moment. _Able to love so freely, cling so tightly to d’Artagnan._

_If I were them I would never let him go._

But she is not them, she is a married woman, she cannot love d’Artagnan. _That_ is an expense that she cannot afford. So, she reaches out and traces the patterns of his memory with her fingertips, traces the patterns of their love, of their forever, then lets her hand fall to her lap.

“Constance.” She looks up and Porthos has turned his head to her, something faint and melancholy in his eyes. “You have to be getting home.”

It feels like the ending of a blissful dream, letting go of the brief fantasy of the last hours. Her apartments are a harsh reality. The agony of her leg flares as she hobbles back through her empty rooms, lets her cloak fall to the floor with a muffed thump. Her sewing sits there waiting for her, silver needle glinting.

She is so tired.


	9. Aqua Vitae, the landscape of the sky, and a tableau of brutality

That night they stumble home together, drunk on guilt, each other, and shitty wine. The air is too cold, biting into reddened cheeks, their cloaks swirling around them in eddies of wind. Aramis is partially collapsed against Porthos, smiling insensibly and muttering a prayer in slurring Latin.

“…et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo…”  

Athos tilts his head back, looking into the heavens, his breath misting in white puffs above his face. The sky above Paris is clear, the stars shining like pinpricks through the heavy cloak of the night. For a shining moment he is amongst the universe, the stars circling him in trails of cold light. They weave their paths around him. For a shining moment it’s peaceful in his crowded mind. 

Then he’s stumbling again, the world is foggy and his fingertips are numb. He glances over to Porthos and Aramis, the latter of which is lent against a wall and humming vaguely. Porthos is propped up next to him, looking at Aramis fondly.

“Soul of Christ, sanctify me. Body of Christ, save me. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.” Aramis says, suddenly. “Aqua _Vitae_.” He proclaims loudly, and there’s a wild grin gracing his features.

“The water of _life_.” Athos says mildly. “And I thought I was the one with the drinking problem.”

“Aramis has always liked to make his drinking religious.” Porthos grins.

“One step closer to God.” Aramis agrees indistinctly, and slumps backwards against the wall.  

“And I’m sure, if you had the mental faculty about you, you would give us a lecture on the subject.” Athos chuckles.

Porthos glances at him with amusement.

In the silence that follows, the tension, the electricity in the air is almost palpable. He can taste the guilt on his tongue, feel it, a living breathing thing that he needs to strangle with the truth.

“I was happy.” He says it like a confession and perhaps it is, and perhaps he doesn’t expect the others to hear the damning words, but any reasoning behind it is lost in the fog of his mind.  “She made me happy.” He sucks in a fortifying breath. “For a split second, I forgot.”

 _Must be drunk,_ he thinks. Confessions are not things that come easily to sober lips.

Porthos glances up again, and his eyes speak volumes, they speak identical confessions. The weight of his sin is suddenly a shared burden.

“That’s not what you’ll go to hell for.” Aramis slurs quietly. “None of us are going to hell for _that_.” It’s probably meant to be comforting, but they are all too drunk for any kind of message to be received without the bitter taint of wine and their shared culpability.

“Which bit?” Athos says drily. “The fact that we left our brother, out there alone? Or is it just that, for that brief moment, we forgot, and we were happy? He’s either dead, dying, or risking his life to keep the Queen safe. And we’re here, _cavorting_ around Paris with his woman.”

“Athos.” Porthos’ voice is quiet and calm. “You’re drunk.”

“That does not make me any less accurate.” He sneers. “And you are too.” But he looks at Porthos, and he’s suddenly uncertain.

“Constance Bonacieux is no man’s woman.” Aramis snickers. The tension snaps like a bow strung too tight, impotent without their possession of the wherewithal to solve it.

“We should get back, shouldn’t we?” Athos says, unmoving. He tilts his head back to look at the sky again. To make a decision in this moment is near impossible. His brain feels sluggish and even the concept of moving makes him ill. He’s off-centre, tipsy in his grief, in his guilt, in his wine. He doesn’t want to make decisions anymore, doesn’t want to be the leader, the person that his brothers look to when they’re in trouble, doesn’t want to be responsible for their lives. _After all, d’Artagnan trusted him, and where was he now?_

For weeks now he’s been uncertain, unable to commit to a decision, unable to choose which path to take, which lead to follow. He’s unmoored by his indecision, set adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Every subsequent failure serves only to mock him in his ineffectiveness. The burden of leadership, which he bore so readily, is for the first time dragging him down. 

“I s’pose.” Porthos settles himself carefully against the wall. He seems to sense Athos’ reluctance to leave, but he doesn't say another word for a long time. Aramis slumps beside him, his rosary slipping between his fingertips.

Athos doesn’t remember walking home, but they must’ve. He doesn’t remember packing his saddle bags, doesn’t remember standing before the King, but he did it. He doesn’t remember bowing, his jaw clenched in anger, doesn’t remember his hand on Porthos’ shoulder, on the back of Aramis’ neck, but he knows it happened.

The next thing he remembers is the breath of the horse beneath him. He sees French countryside, he hears the cawing of birds, the rustle of wind through leaves. Musketeers and Red Guards surround him, men in buckled leather uniforms, weapons resting, menacingly comfortable on hips, eyes hard. The sky arches over him, stars blinded by the sun and muffled by grey cloud. 

Aramis is humming again, something lilting and strange, coherent in his icy sobriety. He reigns are clutched loosely in his hands, almost like the rosary from the night before, his hat tilted over his face. Porthos looks worn out, hair tied back sloppily, black curls escaping around his face. 

Athos looks up into the heavens, like the night before, and breathes in the sharp air. The longer he looks the more detail he can see, the textures of the clouds, the ridges and bumps and wisps of grey vapour. It’s like another landscape, another land above his head, one made of dreams and insubstantiality. He’s seeing it with new, clearer eyes, with a wishful, whimsical fantasy that he didn’t realise he was capable of. He’s seeing it as a changeable, ever shifting, ever beautiful wild beast. The sky speaks the emotion of the earth. The thought flickers quickly, briefly, and he almost laughs at it.

He’s being ridiculous, waxing poetic like a broken-hearted Aramis.

His own cynicism kills his mood, and he snaps back to reality as suddenly as if he had fallen.

“‘Thos?” Porthos calls.

He just nods in response, in affirmation. 

“Head in the clouds?” Aramis snorts, causing a couple of other musketeers to chuckle. He has no idea how accurate his guess is.

They ride in comradely silence, the rhythmic sound of horse hooves soothing away thought, soothing away the residue guilt from the night before, and what’s left is determination.

“We’ll find him. We’ll make this right.” He says firmly, and around him he hears hums of assent. “He’s our brother.” He whispers the last part, says it just for himself, almost like he’s trying to make it true.

“Where to first, Athos?” The question comes from one his men, gentle and firm, looking for guidance, trusting in his judgement. 

“Le Havre, we’ll follow the Seine north-west.” The order is swift, decisive in a way that he wasn’t capable of in his drunken haze, and when Porthos looks back at him and nods, he knows that in his leadership, like his guilt, like in every other burden he bears, he is supported by his brothers. 

They ride through the day. Le Havre is crowded, busy with trade and travel, has the odour of fish about it, and is absolutely worthless. The habourmaster is a timorous man, full of empty reassurances and little succour.

“None?” Porthos asks angrily. “Absolutely _none_?”

“Non, Monsieur. I swear upon my life.” The man quails beneath Porthos’ glare, flicking through a thick book filled with cramped handwriting. “But the harbour is a busy place, not all ships can be accounted for–”

“Leave him be.” Athos interrupts quietly. “He knows nothing.”

The habourmaster lets out a huff of indignation, but Porthos silences him with a heated glare.

Aramis glowers silently in the corner. 

They travel south next, stopping at a couple of major ports and questioning the appropriate authority. Slowly they move further from Paris, their company growing wearier with every passing day, every small failure, every lost trail. Small fights break out between the Red Guards and the Musketeers, brawls that are quickly stifled by a progressively impatient Athos.

Porthos gets increasingly rowdy, his fists always at the ready, insults and curses itching on the edge of his tongue, ready to lash out. Aramis retreats into himself, fidgeting with his rosary to the point where Athos wants to tear them from his hand and snap them, scattering the carefully carved stone beads into oblivion. He supposes that would only add to his list of sins.

The worst incident occurs midday, where they’re camped a few kilometers north of the Spanish border. There’s the sound of raised voices, boots scuffling though leaves and the distinctive smack of fist against flesh. He levers himself slowly up from where he’s sprawled against a tree, loosening his rapier in its sheath.

The sight that greets his eyes is a tableau of violence, Musketeers pitted against Red Guards, and at the centre of it all, Aramis, with his pistol levelled at the head of the Red Guard’s commanding officer. The officer is a thin, wiry man, plump lips curled into a sneer, a dagger held tensed by his side.

“Aramis.” Athos calls, and at the sound of his voice, the fighting stills. Porthos is looking straight at him, wiping the blade of his main gauche against his breeches. Athos dearly hopes that it isn’t blood.

Again, he feels the pressure of his power, he marvels at it. “What do you think you are doing?” He understands, for a brief moment, how Treville must feel when they get themselves into trouble. 

Aramis turns his head, his eyes filled with an anger that seems bitter and defensive. “Athos.” He says, mock cordial. “I was just having a friendly discussion with Toussaint here,” He tilts his pistol to gesture to the other man. “We were having a slight disagreement about the state d’Artagnan’s honour.”

“I beg your pardon?” Any shred of composure Athos possessed, any part of his apathy has evaporated in the heat of his anger. “Would you like to repeat your accusation?” He asks hotly.

Toussaint’s sneer widens. “Everyone knows your little Musketeer brat only gained his position by currying _favours_ with the Inséparables.” He spits, and before he knows it, Athos’ cold blade is pressed against his throat.

“The next words you say may be your last.” Athos whispers dangerously. “So choose wisely.” 

“Why should we travel across the country just to rescue the Musketeers'  _salope_ and the King’s Spanish whore? We’re on a full-scale search for _corpses_.” Another Red Guard speaks up. Athos picks him out of the crowd, pale blond hair and defiant set of a sharp jaw. 

Growls echo throughout the group of Musketeers. He just insulted their Queen, and more importantly, one of their own. 

“She’s your Queen.” Porthos says lightly, threateningly, and his knife is flashing between his hands. 

“She’s a _Spanish_ Queen.” The man says, and Athos notices his hand straying to the flintlock on his hip. 

“And we are at peace with Spain.” Aramis says, and his finger is itching towards the trigger.

Athos can see the situation unravelling before him, devolving into insult and injury. His uncertainty leaps up on him again, clutching and clawing in his throat. He so badly wants to let go of whatever equanimity he has left, let this become a bloodbath. He knows they will come out on top, he knows they would be burying a dozen Red Guard carcasses by dusk. He almost yearns for blood on his blade, from guts spilling and those last huffs of breath at his fingertips. 

“I could have you arrested for treason.” He says finally, refusing to acknowledge his hypocrisy even to himself. “I could let my men decimate yours in an instant, with a word. Thank whatever god you believe in that I refuse to return to Paris to replace your manpower.” He flicks his blade up, lets it quiver, barely a centimetre away from Toussaint’s eye. “But if I hear one more word from you or any of your company against d’Artagnan or the Queen, I will let my brothers finish this quarrel _once and for all_.” He sheathes his rapier with an icy look, and there’s a chorus of muttered acquiescence, mixed with abrasive murmurings of approval.

“Oh, you will _dearly_ regret this, Athos.” Toussaint’s sneer slips into a snarl.

 Athos doesn’t doubt that the man will _try_. He waves his hand and the musketeers stand down, hands sliding off the hilts of weapons, the tension flooding out of the group. “This will be in my report to the King.” He says firmly. “I would keep a low profile from now on if I were you.” Athos turns away from Toussaint, reigning in his temper with a few forced breaths. “We leave for the Spanish border tomorrow.” He orders decisively. “Have the camp packed up by sunrise. We have a Queen to rescue.”


	10. An imperious glare, spilt blood and a contract of lives

When Ana wakes, she smells home. It’s an odd, bone deep knowledge that she feels seeping through her, this is her country, her people, her language, her land. She is home. 

It takes a moment before her surroundings set it, before the memories of the last weeks flood back. The loss of that brief moment of joy is profound. She is home, but she is far, far away from the golden palaces and sprawling gardens of her youth.

She sits up slowly, her back aching in protest, and runs a hand through her hair, twisting it up into a knot.

“Were you up all night again?” She asks quietly, and d’Artagnan turns his head to look at her. The weighty shadows under his eyes scream attestation, but the Musketeer doesn’t answer. She looks him over, sable hair rumpled, old bloodstains on his clothes. He’s calm, settled and alert. He looks better than she feels.

“How did you sleep?” He asks, and she thinks of that night, of the nights stretching back before then, lying in the pitch black, surrounded by strangers, the cold eating away at her. She’d listen to d’Artagnan breathe and she’d pray, repeating the words to prayers known by heart, letting the comfort of the familiar words lull her into a fitful slumber.

“Fine.” She lies, and he looks at her like he knows, but the words aren’t voiced.

He tilts his head towards the door and she nods, letting him help her to her feet. Pale sunlight is strewn across the floor, the light imitating the patterns of the cracks in the door.

As she tiptoes through the straw, a tentative hand drifts to her rounded abdomen, hoping to feel a flutter of movement that means her child lives. All she feels is her own breath, the expansion of her lungs through her palm, and the hollowness of her stomach like a pit inside her. The disappointment is bitter on her tongue, and she feels foolish at the pre-emptive hope.

D’Artagnan leads her outside, mimicking the routines of the days before. He draws water from the small well beside the slaves’ quarters, winding the coarse rope around his arm as he hauls the dripping bucket over the lip of the well. 

She carefully unbuttons her dress, letting it slide from her shoulders. He’s quick to avert his eyes, standing with his back to her as she carefully washes herself with the icy water. 

His modesty doesn’t extend to his own body, and he doesn’t bother turning around to strip off his shirt, and she watches the muscles and ribs shift beneath his scarred sepia skin as he splashes water across his face and chest. Her fascination quickly turns to worry.

She moves quickly towards him and catches a stray arm. “How could you hide this from me?” He looks up, confused. She uses his arm to manoeuvre him in front of her and runs her fingers over the bared skin along his flank, mottled with a multi-coloured bruises like shadows. 

He makes a half-hearted effort to pull his arm from her grasp. “Ana.” He says warningly, but she ignores him spitefully, digging her fingers in his bicep. 

“Your ribs.” She says forcefully. “Are they broken? When did you injure them d’Artagnan?” Without realising it she’s speaking in a commanding tone, her voice harsh and steely.

He looks at her softly. “During the fight. A man got a hit beneath my guard.” He doesn’t attempt to pull away even as she can feel her gaze grow leaden with turbulent emotion. “They’re not broken, only bruised.”

“And this?” She traces the shallow cut scored down his shoulder blade.

“Same fight, different man,” he murmurs. “Slashed at me with his main gauche while I was engaged with his friend. It’s healing fine.”

“Did you kill them?” She asks haltingly.

He doesn’t answer her, just looks at her unforgivingly, unapologetically.

“Show me.” She orders and it only takes an imperious glare for him to acquiesce to her will. He lets her tend to his wounds, cleaning them out with the fresh water. He helps her as she tears a ragged strip of fabric from her dress and stands patiently as she binds his wounds.

“I was protecting you.” He says and cards a hand through his hair, biting his lip as she pulls the cloth tight around his palm.

“I know.” She says after a long pause, her knuckles white as she struggles to tie the makeshift bandage. “I know.”

He thanks her carefully as she ministers to him, embarrassment flushing his cheeks in an endearing manner. “It’s not necessary.” 

“Absurdité.” She says fiercely. “I need you and you won’t take care of it yourself.”

He smiles suddenly, a warm fragile expression that lights up his face. She is taken aback by the rare, precious thing, a brief moment of blinding brightness in the middle of the dusk of their situation.

She smiles back impulsively, caught up in the moment, and her hands drop to her side. 

As she works that day, the sweat dripping down her back, blisters forming against the rough cane of her basket, she thinks back to that brief moment of euphoria and she holds it tight in her chest.

She glances over to where d’Artagnan is working, a field over, his machete bright in the sunlight as he swings it with a soldier’s accuracy, felling the tall plants swiftly. He wipes the back of his hand over his forehead as she watches and she can see a haematic stain spreading on the blue scrap of cloth.

A slave comes up to him, young and well-built with broad shoulders, his bronzed umber skin highlighted with a sheen of sweat. They exchange words, d’Artagnan with his machete clutched loose by his side, the other man almost too at ease in his surroundings. She watches carefully as they talk, noting the stiffening in d’Artagnan’s posture, his almost instinctive turn to her. She catches his eyes, tries to give him a look of reassurance. _I’m fine._

He turns back to the other slave, his grip around the machete tighter and she, knowing she’s been too still for too long, turns back to her work, steadying the heavy basket on her hip.

It’s odd, to work like this. Every single day she spends in these fields, the dissonance of her situation grates on her nerve. Every now and then she feels that familiar wave of righteousness and of panic, rising up in her gut, teetering on the edge of a costly outburst. D’Artagnan always finds a way to calm her, with his serious but gentle looks and his patient reminders of her duty. Of her duty to her child and to her country and to herself. 

“You are the most important thing now.” He would say. “Remember that. No matter what happens, we need to keep you alive and well.”  

And she would feel a brief relief. _This is just a moment, just a footnote in her story._ The world was on her side. Fate was on her side. D’Artagnan was on her side.

She winds her hand around a ripe ear of corn and tugs sharply, pulling it free from its stalk and tossing it into her basket. With its weight digging painfully into her hip, she decides to make the journey to the pile to return her yield. As she picks her way carefully down the rows of maize, she glances back to d’Artagnan again. He’s back at work, felling the barren and picked clean stalks. She can almost hear the swish and smack of his machete and the thought of there being a real weapon in his hands, a finely crafted blade instead of the dulled and crude machete, a weapon wielded with that sort of strength and accuracy, is enough to make her stomach flutter with apprehension. 

She places her basket carefully into the waiting cart, one of many already flowing over with ears of golden corn. As she wipes her hands on her dress, a large, modestly ornate carriage rumbles to a halt behind her, horses stamping their hooves against the dusty ground. 

“That pretty one there, why is she working in the fields?” A foreboding shiver curls down her spine. The voice coming from the interior of the carriage is commanding, worn deep with age. 

“Father, we needed _labourers_.”  She recognises Miguel's voice, straining like a reigned racehorse, his anger champing at the bit.

“And we have labourers, do we not? A treasure like that needs to be _cherished_ , put to use.” Revulsion curdles her stomach. “Bring her to me.”

She looks up as she hears the heavy footsteps approaching her. Two men, guards or soldiers perhaps, pulls her roughly to her feet, hands gripped tightly around her arms. She tries to pull away, loosen their grip.

“I can walk.” She says insistently in Spanish. “Let me go, I can walk.”

They ignore her, expressionless as they haul her towards the carriage where Miguel and his father sit. As they push her to the ground, her knees slamming painfully into the dirt, she hears a distant shout of rage.

 _D’Artagnan_.

She twists around, trying to look as the guards pull swords from sheaths, two more dismounting from their place at the front of the carriage.

He comes striding out of the maize, fury etched in his form in harsh lines. He catches the first blade against the edge of his machete, twisting it from its owner’s grip as he moves determinedly towards her. He slams his forehead into the next man’s nose, and she hears a sickening crunch.

She looks away, twists her hands together frantically and _prays_. 

When she looks back, sick to the stomach with guilt and dread, four guards restrain d’Artagnan bodily as he struggles against their grip, blood smeared across his forehead.

“Let him go.” The order comes from the older man, and she recognises the steel in his voice as the venom of one used to being obeyed unquestionably, like a person used to being in charge, in control. She recognises it in herself.

That thought, that she could be in any way similar to the man, this selfish, lecherous slave owner—

“Master Santiago.” One of them says warningly.

“Do it.” His tone brooks no defiance, no argument.

The guards drop their hands reluctantly and d’Artagnan lunches forwards, panting. Slowly, deliberately he turns his head to the side and spits scarlet blood from his mouth.

“Me gustas.” Santiago says cheerfully. He looks over to her and she swallows roughly as his assessing, invading gaze travels over her again. It takes effort for her to keep her hand from cradling her swollen stomach, as if the gesture could protect her unborn child rather than reveal its presence. “What is your relationship to her?” He asks probingly, then repeats the question in French. “Quelle est votre relation avec elle?”

D’Artagnan doesn’t answer him, his eyes unyielding with ire. Defensiveness screams in his posture, his body tensed like a wound spring. He looks like a sparking fuse, the destructive power of gunpowder lying in wait, every move with the potential of cataclysm.

“Are you friends? Lovers?” Santiago guesses genially. He seems to take d’Artagnan’s unresponsiveness as affirmation, because he chuckles with a self-satisfied air. “Romeo and Juliet in my own plantation. How marvellous. And look at you.” He leers down at d’Artagnan in fascination. “You fight like a soldier, sẽnor, you fight like a warrior.”

D’Artagnan tilts his head in a manner that suggests contempt. 

The man laughs again. “What is your name, soldier?” The silence stretches long between them as d’Artagnan refuses to make a sound. “Very well. Girl, what is your lover’s name?”

Ana starts uneasily as his attention sweeps back to her. “I—” She doesn’t know how answer him. The notion of lying crosses her mind, but the idea of Miguel’s punishment is enough of a deterrent. Quickly she tries to think of a middle ground, a place somewhere between the truth and a lie enough for him to not discover her identity. It’s in this moment that she discovers she has no idea what d’Artagnan’s first name is. They had spent every moment together for over a month, in which time he’d saved her life multiple times, and yet... She makes a split-second decision. “D’Artagnan.” She says faintly.

How much damage could they do with only that name? She looks to d’Artagnan for a sign, whether she’d done the right thing or not. His eyes flicker over to her, and he just nods subtly. Relief floods through her.

“And you, my lovely Juliet?”  

“Ana.”

“It took four my men to hold you back when you thought she was in danger.” His attention has switched back to d’Artagnan, and his voice seems like shards of metal, his compliments deadly traps. “That sort of strength and ability is _remarkable_.” D’Artagnan’s glare seems to only grow colder. “I need men like you by my side.” 

“You want me to work for you.”

The man’s grin turns uninhibited. “He speaks.”

“Why should I?” D’Artagnan says, “How could you ever trust _me_ with your life?”

“Oh, but I won’t be. I’ll be trusting you with _her_ life.”

“You threaten her and you think _that_ will control me?” D’Artagnan says softly. “You threaten _her_ —” He cuts himself off and there is something lethal and pensive warping his expression. “She will be working in the house? And we’ll live in the servants’ quarters?”

“Yes.” Santiago smirks expectantly. “You know what, I like you so much, you lovebirds can have your own room.”

Miguel looks livid. “ _Padre_. They are—”

“He is my soldier now, Miguel, and she my maid. You will keep a civil tongue in your head. The sort of skill he has, and the sort of beauty she possesses, it is far greater than the pittance we paid for them. We’d be imbeciles and poor business men to let that go to waste.” He speaks rapidly in Spanish and Ana listens closely, face carefully neutral.

“You are a hopeless, foolish romantic, father.” Miguel hisses. “He is a reckless, undisciplined and uncooperative upstart. He could be far more dangerous then you realise.”

“He is loyal to her; he will not let her die.”

“We don’t know that.” 

“And where is the risk in this gamble, mi hijo? Either becomes dangerous, we’ll kill them.”

D’Artagnan looks down at her as she presses a trembling hand to her mouth. She knows she must pretend to be unaffected, must not let on what she knows in front of Santiago and Miguel. But she’s terrified. Terrified for herself, for her child, for d’Artagnan, for the future.

Nevertheless, for now, she must play her role, must be obedient and silent. _No matter what happens now, I must stay alive and well_.


	11. The fragility of silence, and a messenger of death robed in King’s colours

It’s late afternoon when the messenger arrives.  

It had felt like a storm. When the man was first spotted in the distance, far away over the rolling green hills, the air was electric. They’d waited, hands busy and minds distracted. As the rider came closer with every passing moment and the King’s colours became obvious, emblazoned bright over his chest, thoughts invaded their minds. 

Aramis knew enough to feel like this was the end. 

He stripped his guns down, cleaned every inch. He honed his blades, brushed off his hat, polished his rosary. He’d prayed, because even though they had nothing, soon they would have less.  

_He knows what the end feels like._

Athos brooded, ungloved fingers played with the edge of his sword, the blue of his eyes sharpened by suppressed emotion. 

_He_ knows _what the end feels like._

Porthos talked. Loudly and jovially, but it still seemed empty, hollowed out with the inevitability of the rider on the edge of the horizon, moving closer with every passing moment. 

_This is what death feels like._  

The sky is clear and high when the messenger arrives, but it may as well be shrouded in dark billowing thunderclouds. The tension prickles along the back of Aramis’ neck. 

Aramis has been a soldier for a long time. In battle, in war, death is inescapable. It stands like a constant companion, breath cold against cheeks, clutch spindly like claws around throats. Death is the brother beside you, the enemy ahead of you, the weapon in your hand, the one trained at your head. Death commands and follows command, leads and demands to be led. It is pliant and unyielding, a paradoxical irreverent imperative.  

Aramis has a complicated relationship with death. 

He believes in heaven, of course he does. How can this messy, flawed, labyrinthine reality be their final destination? He’s pragmatic, his body will go into the ground, he’s seen enough dead bodies to know that his physical being will be buried, forever anchored to this earth. His soul however, that he hopes will fly free, pulled beyond this place by some greater power.  

Then the rider materialises, horse’s hooves stamping restlessly like thunder, the outstretched letter as pale as lightning, and Aramis knows, even before the wine-red seal is snapped, even before he’s read the carefully inked words.  

Athos takes the missive in a firm hand, gestures one of the Musketeers to lead the man’s horse away, pulls his hat from his head. Aramis walks up to him, grabs his shoulder, feels the muscles tensed beneath leather. Porthos slings an arm over Athos, tangles his gloved fingers in the curls at the back of Aramis’ neck. Aramis leans into the heavy hand, tries to let the tension drain from him.  

They read the letter. 

Aramis’ firm grip on Athos’ shoulder grows tighter. 

They make the journey back to Paris. Every moment is torturous, like a step backwards, a step further away from their invisible enemy and d’Artagnan. Tempers are short and reigned as tightly as horses, and Paris arrives all too soon, sitting menacingly on the skyline, smoke drifting from its peaked rooftops. 

The horses’ hooves are too loud on the cobblestones, and Aramis can feel a headache pounding at his temples, but he can’t bring himself to channel his anger at Delilah. He runs a gentle hand down the glossy sorrel side of her neck and croons to her quietly. 

He can’t bring himself to look at his brothers.  

A younger recruit takes Delilah’s reins from him as he dismounts, his cheeks rouged with— _admiration? Fear? Sorrow, respect, disgust?_ Aramis can’t tell. He tells the boy curtly to take care of his horse, and he just nods vigorously. 

They make their way slowly up the stairs to Treville’s office, and Aramis can feel the smouldering gazes of the Musketeers gathered in the garrison. Each of them looking towards him and his brothers. Each of them wishing d’Artagnan was walking up the steps alongside them. 

Or at least that’s what he imagines. But perhaps he’s projecting.   

Treville calls them into the office even before Athos’ knuckles have touched the door, and they walk inside silently. Their silence is something both dangerous and fragile. Aramis wonders absently about the safety of reticence. 

“You know why you’re here.” Treville says, and it’s so close to a question that Aramis feels his temper flare. 

“The messenger reached us.” Athos says calmly, coldly. He’s too tense, more tense than he has ever been before battle, but perhaps that was the incongruity of a soldier.   

“Athos.” Treville says warningly and pinches the bridge of his nose, a pained look tightening his mouth.  

“What’s your explanation?” Porthos growls. “Why has the search for the Queen—” _for d’Artagnan_ “— been called to a halt?” Aramis can’t help but compare his anger to molten rock. It was always there, pushing up from inside of him and burning through him. Sometimes his cage of bones and flesh was not enough to hold the raw power of his rage, and he would collapse, torn apart by an anger he couldn’t control, and Aramis would have to build him up from his melted remains, pull him back together. 

“The Cardinal received a letter.” Treville replies unperturbed. He carefully shuffles some papers around his desk. “A letter outlining the incompetencies and resource draining nature of the search. The Cardinal went to the King, and despite the wild accusations, the King was enraged enough by the perceived ineptitude of, and the quote unquote ‘extravagant spending and military depletion’ resulting from the search, to recall the Musketeers and Red Guards.”   

Aramis feels a sliver of dread in his stomach. “This letter,” he says cautiously. “Did it happen to come from within the Red Guards?” Athos’ and Porthos’ heads snap up at his words and they exchange a glance. _Goddamn it_. 

Treville looks at them knowingly. “The letter came from an undisclosed source among the Cardinal’s people.” He says carefully. “That’s the official version of events. And unfortunately, the King’s mind remains unswayed on this matter. He’s got it into his head that the sooner the country passes through mourning, the sooner we will grow to be stronger.” He sighs heavily. “He used the phrase ‘purgatory of ineffectiveness’ so I have an idea of who put these thoughts into his head.” 

“The Cardinal.” Athos murmurs. 

Treville tilts his head. “It’s not up to me to make speculations regarding the King’s decisions.” He says, but inclines his head in confirmation. “In any case, they are final.” 

Then they are dismissed, and Aramis strides down the stairs out of Treville’s office, the other two trailing behind him, each in states ranging from frustration to outrage. 

“How dare he?” Porthos grunts and slams a hand down on the table. 

“He fulfilled his threat.” Aramis reasons softly, but he too feels like laying into an inanimate object. “By God he fulfilled that ridiculous threat.” 

“This is my fault.” Athos whips his hat from his head, tossing it onto the table, his face twisted.   

“It’s Toussaint’s bloody fault. That good for nothing—” Porthos bites out words that would make a sailor blush. 

“I drew the first weapon.” Aramis adds, guilt acidic on his tongue. “I’m to blame.” 

“We couldn’t let him go unpunished. What he said couldn’t lie.” 

“D’accord.” Athos’ hand fidgets against his thigh. “ _No-one_ may speak of d’Artagnan like that.”   

The silence that follows his words is profound, filled with a stark truth. They no-longer defended d’Artagnan’s honour, they preserved his memory. 

And what that means for them terrifies Aramis. 

He gets up from the table, makes his way gingerly out onto the cobblestones of the streets of Paris, like he might break if he steps to hard, makes a wrong move. Like he might shatter to pieces. 

Aramis thinks death comes in many forms. _Perhaps this is one of them._ He thinks solemnly. _How can they truly go on living after this?_

He’s faced the death of his brothers before, and it nearly broke him. He still flinches at the sight of snow, still retreats into himself during the worst of winter, head filled to the brim with guilt and death. Without Porthos and Athos to rely on, he would’ve lost the battle in his head a long time ago. And now? Now all of them are broken, shattered to pieces, their battered remains lying back in the thick of the woods where they last saw d’Artagnan. And how can broken men rebuild each other?   

He’s not watching where he walking, and soon his feet lead him to a church, it’s spires fragmenting the sky. He drops to his knees in front of the altar, the smell of dust and wax and rich sacramental wine fill him with comfort. He closes his eyes softly, somewhere between meditation and prayer, and the rest of the world fades away like wisps of bright colour and smoke, he lets it all drift away. 

Time passes differently in front of God. 

When he rises, knees protesting stiffly, the light outside is dimmer, evening pressing through the heavy wooden doors of the church. He walks outside into the suddenly crisper air, and fixes his hat onto his head.  

Athos looks up from where he’s leaning against the stone wall of the church, Porthos picks himself up from the ground and Aramis almost, _almost_ feels like smiling. But he doesn’t.   

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Athos asks, and Aramis can’t read the emotion in the depths of his cerulean eyes. 

“I know what I have to do.” He replies, and Porthos claps him on the shoulder, and he almost, _almost_ feels like they could fix each other. 

But perhaps they can’t. 


	12. A man made into weapon, a shattering, and a spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick trigger warning before this chapter: It contains a stillbirth, some sexist slurs, a physical attack, and descriptions of a panic attack. Please be careful in reading this chapter.

He’s given a weapon. A sword rests in his hands for the first time in months, hilt worn oddly against the shape of his grip. It’s poorly balanced, the metal unrefined, the edge duller than he’d like, but it is a blade.

They’re given clothes, loose-fitting white linen shirts, black breeches, leather boots for him; cream linen slips and soft soled shoes for Ana. They are not French clothes, they are not clothes fit for winter, but they are clean.

He’s given tight leather cuffs to tell the world that his worth is measured in silver.

They’re given a room, small and in the servant’s quarters, deeply cold in the depths of the night and with one tiny bed and a straw mattress, but it is a room and it’s their room.

He sleeps on the floor for two nights before Ana pulls him onto the thin bed beside her and he sleeps for the first time in a week. The night may be cold, but they are warm.

Ana adapts quickly, mostly unused to the new type of labour, but an older woman, Catalina, takes Ana under her wing, cooing about her rounding belly and her pretty blonde hair. She learns to be one of the people who served her for all her years as a princess and a queen. She learns to curtsey like a servant, to speak when spoken to, to never slouch, never slack, never lie. 

D’Artagnan gets into a fight on his very first day. 

He’s reporting to the guardhouse, on Santiago’s orders, a tiny cottage of stone near the entrance to the main household. The land rises steeply around the household, giving sweeping views of the surrounding property, fields of golden brown crops and the dull dirt of empty fields.

The slaves and overseers are dots among the expanse of the grounds, easily forgotten as people and reduced to their work, the amount of area plowed and picked clean, the plants cut to the ground by the sweep of their machetes.

The first warning sign is the men. Over a score of them, men whose every movement exudes a hostility, who use bravado like a knife and can’t bear to be told they’re wrong. D’Artagnan knows men like these, in Paris they wear uniforms and bear the mark of the Cardinal.

He starts to shoulder his way through them, heading towards the guardhouse, intent on performing his duty and nothing more. A hand latches onto his shoulder, and he stills.

“¿Qué tenemos aquí?” A guttural Spanish voice says, and d’Artagnan has been in enough brawls to know what the words mean, despite his lack of knowledge of the language. He turns slowly to size the man up, trying to calm the surge of adrenaline and pique, the itch that burns the self-preservation and equanimity out of him. 

“Él luchará.” Someone calls from the back of the crowd, then he’s being pushed into the centre of the crowd, a bare patch of dusty ground, encircled by the men.

“You have a poor way of showing hospitality.” He mutters, slowly loosening his stance, fighting the rising haze that itches through his veins. 

The first man swaggers into the circle, his centre of gravity too high, his fists too slow. He goes down, nose pulpy and leaking crimson. The second gets a black eye and dislocated shoulder, dragging himself out of the ring with one arm dangling limp. The third a shattered shin and snapped ribs, the fourth, he goes down and he doesn’t come back up.

D’Artagnan stands, panting in the dust, a trickle of blood down the side of his face. “ _Well_?” He yells in French, and he spreads his arms wide, beckoning to the crowd. “Who’s next?” The buzz fills him, the rush of the fight, the pain of split skin and blood split. His veins are sparking with the energy, glowing golden red with wrath and lust.

D’Artagnan has always loved to burn

“Enough.” Someone says instead, and Santiago is suddenly in front of him, an eager twist to his mouth that smothers the effervescence under his skin. He knows smiles like that, the objectification behind that stare. He knows what it’s like to be reduced to a skill set, to the speed of his strikes, the accuracy of his aim, the reliability of his instincts. He knows what it’s like to be a soldier on attention, to be assessed and placed a value on.

To Santiago he is an oddity, a prize to be obtained, a weapon to be used.  

“Give this man a sword.” Santiago says, and suddenly he is owned, honed and primed, ready to be aimed at the man’s will. His bloodlust is gunpowder, and Santiago owns his flint. 

He’s told to follow. Told to be on guard. Told to place his life in forfeit if necessary. This is a role d’Artagnan knows how to perform, standing at attention for hours on end while a nobleman conducts business, signs documents with a flourish of a gilded quill, goes hunting in his grounds. He knows how to escort a nobleman, where to stand, when to bow. Spain has customs close enough to French that he learns easily over the weeks. 

This is what he’s used to. D’Artagnan has been a weapon before, been the musket in his King’s hand, the shield guarding his flank; the sword in his father’s sheath, the armour covering his back.

Which is an utterly sickening thought unto itself, that his time with the Musketeers, with his family, could be compared with this situation. That serving King Louis or fighting alongside his father could be akin to guarding this Spanish slave-owner, men whose differences should far outweigh their similarities. But he knows they all used him in their own ways, and the cuffs permanently binding and grating against his skin erase the uncertainty, they create a comforting juxtaposition, a contrast that lets trecherous thoughts fade.

Though he was hardly worth more under Louis, at least he was a free man. Though he was hardly worth more beside his father, he was loved. At least he wasn’t cuffed. At least he hadn’t been indentured for a handful of coins. 

This is a life he knows how to live. This is a world he knows how to survive in. 

Their room is cold at night, any heat gained during the day leeching quickly into the stone. By night the floor is a dog nipping with teeth of ice at the bare soles of his feet. He shucks off his scabbard, leaning it against the bed frame where the hilt of his sword can easily be grabbed. He’s unlacing his breeches when Ana stirs on the bed. She sits up slowly, flaxen curls tangled down her shoulders. She mumbles something incomprehensible and places her hand protectively over the curve of her stomach.

“I’m sorry.” D’Artagnan murmurs. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She nods, eyes foggy with sleep, and straightens herself up, propped against the headboard. “Are you injured today?” She asks, voice leaden. “Did you get in another fight?”

“Go back to sleep, Ana.” 

“Don’t talk to me like that. Don’t dismiss me.”

“I’m sorry.” He sighs, and carefully pulls the leather thong from his hair, letting it fall in dark coils around his face. “It’s been a long day.”

“You should let me cut that.” Ana says softly, and reaches for the tips of his hair, tugging it gently. “It’s getting long.”

“It is.” He agrees. Ana plays with strands of his hair as he slowly stretches out the aches of the day, a comfortable silence stretching between them.

Ana inhales sharply, and he looks up. She’s cradling her stomach, something bright livening her face. “D’Artagnan.”

“What is it?” He murmurs, twisting around to crouch in front of her.

She grabs his hand between hers and places it gently against the swell of her stomach. “Feel it.” She whispers. “Feel him.”

Her stomach is warm and soft beneath his palm, her hands small and tightly wrapped over his. He would almost feel awkward at the lack of formality between them, the intimacy of the touch, a moment usually reserved to the privacy of a marriage bed. But they both know that they have something that transcends the intricacies of societal expectations. Society abandoned them a long time ago, and they it.

He waits for a moment, then he feels it, a sharp movement beneath the surface of her skin. “He’s alive.” D’Artagnan murmurs. “He’s alive.”

He falls to his knees before her, both hands gently cradling her stomach, suddenly overcome by reverence. Overcome by this woman, this Queen, carrying the Dauphin of France. Overcome by her perseverance, her strength, her courage to carry a child, keep a child, even in the midst of this horror.  

“D’Artagnan.” Ana whispers gently. “You have no need to kneel for me.” There are tears trailing silvery over the curve of her cheek, but she’s smiling, wider than he’s ever seen her smile, and he shatters a little. His mouth cracks, crooked and broad across his face, and he presses his face to the fabric of her slip, trying to muffle his grin.

After a moment, he calms down enough to grabs her hands gently. “He’s alive, Ana. This is amazing.”

“He’s alive.” She says and laughs, relief loosening her form until her hair is tumbling over her face, glowing like spun gold, shoulders shaking, and she pulls D’Artagnan to his feet and clutches him like they are the only things in the world. They let themselves hope. 

Perhaps it was worse like that. Perhaps it was worse that she knew. 

Hope is a dangerous thing. A petty, inconsistent, destructive thing.

And _perhaps_ , if they hadn’t known, it would have been easier. 

If it could have been easier.

The morning dawns bright and early, and d’Artagnan is still asleep beside her as she slowly extracts herself from the bed to start her work. Water must be drawn before breakfast, the buckets heavy in her arms. When she brings the laden breakfast tray up to the gilded doors of the main room, d’Artagnan is there to open them for her, face set blank, hands clutched loosely in front of him. She knows better than to interact with him, knows better than to smile, despite the happiness still swirling like molten gold through her.

She knows her duty.

Months fly by all too quickly, new roles learnt and ingrained, and things that used to be hard, used to be humiliating, become habit. Life before this seems so far away, seems a world away. They live in the ashes of what was, wander within the maze of the shredded remains of the people they were. Queens can so easily become servants, are so easily torn down and corrupted into slaves. Soldiers are effortlessly ordered, weapons can change hands deftly, be remoulded by their wielder.

She’s dusting the living room, movements uncomfortably familiar and repetitive, when the front door slams open. Heavy footsteps, sharp, angry, and irregular, mark Miguel’s entry into the room. He pulls a decanter from the shelf and takes a swig of the amber alcohol, the lines of his throat severe in the sharp light of the window.

“¿Qué estás mirando?” He snaps and slams the bottle down onto the mantle, stalking towards her. 

She stutters out an apology in French, and suddenly her hands are unsteady, fumbling as she shifts a vase. Miguel is too close, and she feels his stare as it runs down her body. 

“Goddamn it, girl. Look at me when I talk to you.” His voice is a growl, something menacing and animalistic.  

She winds her hands together tightly, and slowly looks up to meet his eyes, fear clawing against the lining of her stomach. “I apologise, Master Miguel.”

Suddenly his fingers are digging into her chin, tugging her towards him, and his breath is pungent, acrid against her lips. “Don’t talk back to me, girl.” He snarls. “Don’t you _dare_ disrespect me.” A tiny whimper escapes her, the terror bubbling out of her.

He laughs harshly and drags fingernails down the side of her face, leaving a stinging red trail in their wake. Then it like he snaps, something inside of him shattering and the tension ripples through him.

He flings her to the ground and she lands heavily on her side, pain blossoming from her hips, a cry torn from her lips. Something wet gushes down the inside of her legs and she feels stabbing cramps from deep in her gut. “No.” She whispers desperately and clutches at her swollen stomach.  

Miguel looks at her, disgust like absinthe spilling in his eyes. “What’s wrong with you, puta?” She cringes at the word. “I didn’t touch you.” He spits, and it sits teetering between a warning and self-reassurance, some vehement lie. “ _I didn’t touch you._ ” He backs away from her slowly, anger and fear warring on his face. 

She wants to scream at him to stay away, but the fear of what he could do to her, to her child, stills her tongue. “Please get d’Artagnan.” She begs, even though he is the last person in the world she wants to beg to. “Please, I need d’Artagnan.”

“Shut up.” Miguel spits at her. “Shut your whore mouth.” 

“ _Please_ , I need d’Artagnan.” She gasps as the pain comes again, a wave of agony coiling down her spine and through her.

“Stop. Stop it.” 

“I _can’t_.” She cries out in pain.

“You will say nothing.” He snaps. “You won’t say a _word_ about this, not a _word_.” He backs out of the room, placing the glass carefully on the sideboard. She hears his uneven footsteps as he walks through the door and outside.  

She’s alone, unable to move for the pain, unable to stop what was happening.

Another wave of pain curls her over. “Please no. No no no.” A tear runs down her face, the pain worsening moment by moment. “ _D’Artagnan_.” She yells wretchedly. “ _D’Artagnan_!” 

_Hasn’t she lost enough already? Sacrificed enough already? Hasn’t she given everything required of her to give? Surely this isn’t equity?_

“It’s too early. You’re not ready. It’s too early.” She mutters it over and over, caressing her swollen belly as the cramps worsen and she doubles over in pain. “D’Artagnan!” She screams out. 

It’s not d’Artagnan that finds her.

“Catalina.” She whispers, and the older woman is leaning over her, brown eyes glimmering with tears, soft hands on Ana’s cheeks. 

“ _Querida_.” Catalina murmurs, and she grabs Ana’s hand. “Just hold on, just hold on a little longer. Someone is getting d’Artagnan. Everything will be okay. Te _prometo_ , just hold on for me.”

It feels like eternity, then he’s there, crouched beside her. He sweeps her up into his arms, pulling Catalina’s hand from her grasp. He holds her tight against his body, and she buries her head into his chest, wanting everything to fade away.

Before she knows it she’s in their bed, and Catalina’s beside her, pressing a cool damp cloth to her forehead, crooning words that are blurred by the pain. The sheets are slick with blood beneath her and the agony comes in waves down her spine and through her abdomen. She clutches onto d’Artagnan, laces their fingers tight together and _prays_. She prays for her child, for herself, for anything that could possibly help them in that moment. 

“You have to push.” D’Artagnan says to her, and his face is pale, eyes wide with anxiety, hair dishevelled, a cloud of coal. “I know it hurts.” He says firmly. “But Catalina says you have to push.”

She cries out as another wave of pain wracks her body. “Something’s _wrong_. Something’s wrong. He isn’t ready, d’Artagnan. He _can’t_ be ready.”  

“Ana, trust me.” D’Artagnan says insistently. “Please, you have to trust me.” Something like desperation flickers across his face, roosts itself in the dark of his eyes. “Please Ana.” 

And she does.

The Dauphin of France is born into a pool of blood, body small and blushed red, hands tiny and soft, scrunched into dimpled fists. His fragile body is lifted and cradled in the large calloused hands of the man who saved and served his mother. His eyes remain closed.

The Dauphin of France, first child of Anne of Austria, never draws his first breath. His body remains forever an infant’s, preserved with his fists curled into themselves and a tiny frown on his rounded face. He doesn’t move.

And perhaps it would have been easier if he’d never moved at all.

But they would never know.

D’Artagnan looks down at the little delicate body in his hands and the world crumbles in upon itself. There is a ringing in his ears, a horrible echoing sound that distorts Ana’s words.

“My son?” She asks, and her voice is as fragile as her dead son’s body.

He can’t think, can’t form words in any manner that could possibly describe the tragedy that had occurred. He can’t be this person, can’t bear the burden of this news. He can’t both protect her and hand her this pain. He’s a weapon pointed at her head, cocked and deadly, primed to shatter her. 

He can’t… can’t… can’t— 

“D’Artagnan?” She whispers, and it’s almost like she knows, because the room is too quiet, too empty. “My son?” Her voice cracks.

Catalina lets out a tiny gasp, hands pressed to her mouth. She carefully back out of the room, shutting the door silently behind her. 

He wants so badly to say sorry, he can hear the word echoing through his head like a death toll, but it refuses to pass through his lips, because how can that word possibly encapsulate this moment? How can any word? 

He’s stuck in silence, with the corpse cradled limp in his hands, blood leaking through his fingers. He does the only thing he can think to do, the only way of explanation. He places the Dauphin’s body on the Queen’s chest — lays the limp form of Ana’s son against her — and waits, as she looks down at the body that was to be her son.

He didn’t know what he expected, what reaction could possibly be the appropriate one, but the soft, slow smile spreading across her face like honey wasn’t it.  

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” She says, and her eyes are filled with love, warm and glowing and desperately sad. “My son. Mon petit garçon.” She plays with the chubby, small hands, one curling around her finger. “He would have been a strong, fine king.” She tucks the child closer to her breast, her gown blushing pink with blood. “You would’ve taught him how to fight, d’Artagnan. You would’ve made him a great warrior and a great man.”

“Not me.” D’Artagnan murmurs, the words returning to his lips slowly, like a trickle of water after a drought. “He would not have needed me.”

“There you are wrong, my musketeer.” Ana says, her voice as faint as her skin, “My son would’ve needed you as much as I do, and he would’ve been blessed to have you serve him as loyally.”

Then her face crumples like lace and sobs shake her body. 

The Dauphin of France is dead. 

 _Her son_ is dead.

And the small hope that had been kindled with him is smothered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seasons greetings!
> 
> This chapter potentially broke you. If this is the case, I am both sorry and not sorry. Especially because the next chapters aren't much happier. In any case, be soothed by the promise of a happy ending to this whole mess of a fic (sort of. In the general sense of the term happy).


	13. An unravelled man, cinnamon lips, and a shifting rosary

Some days Treville hates his job. Days like today, when the world is falling to pieces around him, and he has the responsibility to stitch it all back together, even if that means unravelling himself.

His day begins with an insistent pounding against his office door. He sighs heavily in preemptive irritation and places his fingers wearily against his temple.

“ _Come in_.” He says, possibly sharper than he intended, then his door slams open and Cardinal Richelieu sweeps into the room, dark red robe rippling behind him.

“It’s time.” Richelieu says and grips the edge of Treville’s desk, knuckles white. “We can’t put it off any longer.”

Treville looks up at him slowly. “Do sit down Cardinal, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

The Cardinal scowls, and sweeps his robes beneath him as he sits. “Be mindful of your tone, Captain.” He reprimands, but he seems slightly chastened, folding his hands carefully in his lap.

“What have you come to see me about, Richelieu?” Treville straightens and shifts his papers, leaning against his desk solemnly.

The Cardinal shifts forwards in his chair, impatience making him curt. “The country needs a functioning King. The King needs a Queen and an heir. We can no longer sit in apathy and silence, denying the people a cathartic truth.”

Treville nods sagely, noncommittal.

“The sooner we tell the public the truth, the sooner we pass through mourning, the sooner the King and France can be reborn stronger.”

“Armand…”

“ _Captain_.” Richelieu snaps. “The King is wallowing, consumed by a grief he refuses to express, and cannot. Not until he finally admits to the public the tragedy befallen the Queen and Dauphin.”

“That is not a priority of the King’s.”

“The King is weak and therefore the country is _weak_.”

“I _understand_.” This time the razor edge to his voice is entirely intentional. “I understand, Cardinal. Surprisingly enough, I am up to date on the situation.”

“And on that topic,” Richelieu continues mercilessly, “your Musketeers are severely lacking at the moment. Distracted on duty, slipping up on basic royal etiquette, sloppy in fights. Not one of them have managed to live up to their surprisingly fearsome reputation, recently. I’d expect better from a regiment so adept at brawling with my Red Guards.”

“They have lost a brother.”

“The King has lost a wife. France, a _Queen_."

“I don’t think you understand, _Cardinal_. My men have lost their _brother_. A man they have fought with, laughed with, bled with. They trusted their lives to d’Artagnan, and he to them, but they couldn’t save him. That is not a thing easily forgotten.”

“Ah.” The Cardinal leans back in his chair, something undeniably smug leaching through his world-creased features. “This is about your so called Inséparables. The little pup tore them apart. The regiment is hardly the same without them. His collateral damage is quite impressive for a boy still wet behind the ears.”

“D’Artagnan was one of them.” Treville growls, his temper slipping away from him. “He had the potential to be the best of us, better than any other soldier I’ve met.”

“He died as easily as any other soldier.”

The silence is as deadly as poison, and Richelieu seems to sense he’s crossed an immutable barrier, rubbing his thumb over a bejewelled ring in an unconscious tell.

“You came here for a reason, Cardinal. I suggest you return to it.” Treville’s voice is like ice.

“Convince to King to have a public service. Convince him to tell the people of the Queen’s demise.”

Some days Treville wants to saddle his horse, tear the hat from his head and the pauldron from his shoulder and ride into the sunset. Ride until he can’t feel his legs, ride until rain is dripping down his face like sweat and tears, and every breath his stead takes rattles through his body. Ride until the weight of responsibility is discarded behind him like a threadbare cloak, tugged from his shoulders by the wind. Until the tether of his brothers back in Paris unwinds him like a spool of silken thread.

But he is here, fixed to his chair in a dusty office, face to face with his enemy and unwilling ally. They are two men thrust together by the weight of their roles, forced to constantly give to the other, compromise with the other, show respect for the other in service of something greater.

And the weight of their responsibilities cripples them.

“And what makes you think I have that power?” Treville says bitterly. “If I may remind you, it was you who convinced the King to cease the search.”

The Cardinal holds his gaze steady, no cracks in his steely facade. “The King is acting unreasonable.”

“He wants the search to continue.” Realisation dawns on Treville. He has an edge now, knows what is coming. He holds all the cards.

“He is being unreasonable. He no longer trusts my council.”

“He loves the Queen.”

“He is acting childish and selfish.”

“He’s _grieving_.”

“Ridiculous.” The Cardinal dismisses offhand. “It was a marriage of political alliance, not sentiment.”

“This behaviour is not new, Armand, just accented by his loss.” Treville says reasonably.

“But now is a time too crucial for it to be accommodated.” Richelieu snaps and flies to his feet, towering over Treville, irritation making him restless. “Louis is a child trapped in a King’s body, but he sits on the throne. We have to appease the child, but we have a responsibility to serve and guide the King.”

“So you’re coming to me. You want me to pass your word to the King. You must be truly _desperate_ , Armand.”

“You still have his ear, he trusts you, we just need to feed him the right information.”

“And why should I?” Treville says quietly. “Why should I, when in your political manoeuvring you have ensured the isolation and demise of one of my men?”

“You’re not an idiot, Treville. You are many things I despise, but you are not an idiot. This is what needs to happen for us to move forward. We just need the King to herald the change.”

“Get out of my office.” Treville stands up firmly, hands planted on his desk.

“What is your answer?”

“Get out of my office, Cardinal.”

Richelieu points a bony finger at Treville, intent sharpening him into harsh lines and furious eyes. “Think about what I’ve said, Captain. The country may very well depend upon it.”

The door closes quietly in his wake.

Treville sits immeasurably still for a long time after the Cardinal has left, his mind tumultuous with actions and consequences. No matter the outcome, he knows the fallout after this will be devastating.

Richelieu had said one thing though, something undeniably true; D’Artagnan’s loss had collateral damage.

The next knock on his door, sharp with impatience or indecision, is not a surprise. “It’s that sort of day isn’t it.” He mutters to himself before calling, “enter.”

The door swings slowly open, and Aramis stands in the doorway, right on the threshold, and he seems frozen, paralysed by some war playing itself out across his features. He looks wrecked, dark rings under his eyes, rosary wound tight around his fingers, beard unkempt.

“Aramis.” Treville says evenly, and it breaks his stillness. Treville stands to meet the man halfway across the room. “Please, have a seat.” He pulls the heavy wooden chair out for him, just restraining himself from helping Aramis sit. He longs to grab the other in a tight embrace, to somehow give the other man relief from the visible grief that holds him in clutches like shadows and steel.

“Captain.” Aramis starts, and there is purpose in his voice that makes worry bubble in Treville’s gut.

This isn’t a healing visit; this is one of self-destruction.

_ I need a drink _ . He thinks.

“I need you to release me from my commission.”

“That is within my power.” Treville nods, but his anxiety is fully realised, infecting him with a desperate energy. “What would be the purpose of that, Aramis?”

“I made a promise… to God, a long time ago.” Aramis says, and his fingers flicker around his rosary, his gaze slipping across the desk. “It’s time for that oath to be realised.”

“Which entails?”

“Devoting the rest of my life in service to God. There’s a monastery some miles north of Paris… I know a Brother there; he’ll take me in.”

“I can’t support this decision, Aramis. You know I can’t condone this.”

“But it’s not your call to make.” The words are not fighting words, they are words of resignation, words of bleak truths and dusty promises, words of lost loves and of broken men.

The Aramis that Treville knew is buried deep behind layers of guilt and penance, behind the terror of the unknown and the fear of the future. Of loneliness.

Something inside Treville wonders if he let Aramis walk out of his office, would he even make it to the monastery?

“I need a drink.” Treville says, and pulls himself up from his chair, moving to the cabinet at the side of his office. “Can I offer you anything? You’re not confined to sobriety yet, are you?” He adds, vaguely sarcastic.

“I— no.” Aramis says, and Treville takes some satisfaction from the surprise in his voice.

“Good.” He pours two cups of liquor, placing one in front of Aramis, downing the other swiftly, the sweet burn clearing his head.

He grabs the bottle again, fingers clutched tight around the cold terracotta of the neck. This time he pours the drink a little slower, watching the amber liquid pool at the bottom of the vessel. “Tell me, when was the last time you saw Athos and Porthos?”

This question also seems to throw Aramis. There’s an infinitesimal pause before he replies. “It’s been… a while.”

The worry burrows deep into Treville’s gut, takes root, sprouts leaves that send shivers through his organs. “Have you heard from them?”

“I believe Porthos is staying in the Court. Athos has been… absent.”

“I see.” He throws back his second glass, feeling the the liquor burn a smouldering path down his throat. He corks the bottle, places it back in the cabinet, and slowly sits back down in front of Aramis. The glass sits in front of the other man, untouched. “When I gave the three of you time off duty, I did not intend for you to fall apart.”

“It was inevitable.”

“It was no such thing.” Treville says fiercely. “You survived Savoy, you can survive this.” As soon as he spits out the words, he regrets them. He should not be losing his temper like this, stooping to this level, twice in one day.

“With respect, _Captain_ , Savoy was different.” Aramis says, his voice clipped with anger. “What I lost at Savoy was different. What died at Savoy was different.” He shudders slightly and his eyes slip away. “And I didn’t lose Athos and Porthos at Savoy.”

“Aramis.” _What can I do? How can I help you? What could I possibly say?_

“Captain.” Aramis says evenly.

“What exactly are you running from?”

_ Is it the grief? The memories? The responsibilities? The possibility of healing? _

“I’m not running away.”

“Can you see how it would seem like that?” Treville presses, and he knows he’s being harsh, perhaps unnecessarily so, but he needs Aramis to be honest.

“ _I’m not running away_.”

“Then why are you lying to me?”

Aramis flinches almost imperceptibly. “I’m not lying.”

“I would’ve thought you were better than to lie to my face like that, Aramis. I would have thought you had more respect than to try and feed me such a weak story.” Treville says, and he knows that the words are manipulative, his skin is crawling with the sheer amount of trust he is breaking, but he knows there’s no other way. He knows he has a duty to this man to do the best thing for him, and if that means digging salt into the wound of Aramis’ loss until he is forced to cauterise it, then he will do what he has to do.

“I may have been once,” Aramis smiles hollowly, “But I am not that man anymore.”

There are no words to fill the silence between them. Nothing that Treville could say would breach that gap. So he lets it sit, blanketed over the room like a shroud. Aramis watches his drink, staring into the oblivion around it, and Treville has a fair idea of the horrors replaying in his head.

“Why now?” Treville asks after a time. “Why are you going now?”

“Because I can’t stay.”

“ _Why can’t you stay?_ ”

“Because,” the words burst out of him, almost unwillingly, “every second I spend in this city, in the garrison, in the Palace it _hurts_. Every second I spend, knowing that I could have saved them _hurts_. Every second _knowing_ that the man who ordered us to let our brother die alone lives guiltless and decadent, _hurts_. I _can’t_ live with this pain. I don’t know what to do with this _weight_.”

“How did you heal after Savoy?” Treville keeps his tone deliberately even.

“I didn’t.”

“You’re sitting in front of me, aren’t you? How did you survive after Savoy?”

“I...” Aramis swallows, pulls a hand through his hair. “I found Porthos. Porthos and Athos.”

“I’m not going to stop you leaving, Aramis. I refuse to wield a power like that to confine and hurt you. All I ask is that you make this decision rationally and take it seriously. If you were to change your mind, the King’s commission would have to be won again, and he might be less disposed to a soldier once left.”

“If I leave I will not return.”

“Sweeping definite statements only serve to restrict a man. Just remember what you’ll be leaving behind.”

“I will.” Aramis gets to his feet, glass untouched on the table, the beads of his rosary imprinted in crimson dents on his skin. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Captain.” He says with unnerving finality.

“Promise me something, Aramis.” Treville says suddenly.

The man pauses, the lines of his body radiating an unwillingness, an air of defeat.

“Find Athos and Porthos. If you are intent on leaving, show them the respect of saying goodbye. They’ve already lost one friend without warning.”

Aramis’ hands tighten in fists by his side.

“Notify me of your decision by the end of the week. And come back to us one last time, let the men show their respects.”

Aramis stands there, silent for a minute, then he bows and leaves, trailing sorrow behind him like smoke.

And Treville is left wondering if he’ll ever see him again.

He waits for a time, carefully signing and sealing documents. Distracted, he burns himself with the wax three times before he decides to take a walk to clear his head.

He’s just out the Garrison’s gate when he sees her, limping towards him, dark green dress accenting the pale of her skin and the cinnamon red of her lips. She occupies the strange juxtaposition of the softness of youth and beauty with the steel of a veteran and a widow. Treville has to forcefully remind himself that she is barely either.

“Madame Bonacieux.” He pulls his hat from his head.

“Captain Treville.” She smiles, leans heavily against the dark carved wood of her cane. “Just the man I came to see.”

“How can I help you, Madame?” Treville asks, smoothly taking her arm. He can feel the slight bit of weight she places on it to assist her as they walk. “Is this a matter to be discussed in my office?”

“The weather is quite fine at the moment.” Constance says, almost wistfully. “Walk me around Paris will you, Captain? I barely get out of the house anymore.”

“It would be a pleasure, Madame.”

Together they wander through the streets of Paris, and oddly Treville can feel his worries slipping away into the fresh air.

“Comment allez-vous?”

“They have been long and difficult months, Captain.” She sighs and her hair slips in front of her face, obscuring her eyes. “My husband has been… absent. He just gained a new project with a Baron, far out of Paris, and he’s been saying on the premises as he works.”

“His place should be by your side.”

“That place has not been occupied by him for some time.” She says good-naturedly. “He is insistent that he become wealthy and successful, and that I stayed confined to my rooms, where I can’t show the world his failures as a husband. I find myself alone, in pain, and unsurprised.” Her mouth is tight with suppressed emotion. “He insists of preserving our marriage and his name, even if that means sacrificing what little is left between us.”

Treville finds himself quietly impressed by her and disgusted by her treatment. Her candidness was  surely borne of loneliness. But it’s not his place to interfere. It’s not his place to presume. “How has your injury been healing? Would you like me to send one of the Garrison’s medics to your house?”

“That’s very kind of you, Treville, but unnecessary.”

“Have you had a doctor to look at it?”

“Toussaint came by a few weeks back.”

“He’s a good man. A good doctor.”

“He was very kind.” Constance adds softly. “He visited of his own accord. But there’s not much anyone can do. By this point only a miracle could fix my leg.”

“I don’t want to pry...” Treville says concernedly.

“The scarring extends down the length of my calf.” She replies, and he can hear the exhaustion in her voice. “It’s likely that I’m blessed with chronic pain as well as my limp.”

“It's a shame.”

“Many a soldier has gotten worse. It is what it is.”

Again, Treville has a surge of respect for her. “I apologise, Madame. We seem to have forgone the reason you came to me?"

She grimaces. “Out of concern. I have not seen Aramis or Porthos for a time?”

Treville carefully weighs up how much he should tell her. _What was his place to tell? What did she need to know?_ “I am aware of Porthos’ whereabouts. Aramis, I saw just today.”

Constance sighs in relief. “Good. I was worried about them.”

“But not Athos?”

“I—” Constance says, visibly flustered. “Hardly. But Athos came to my doorstep last night.”

“He wasn’t bothering you, was he?” Treville asks. He hasn’t seen Athos in weeks. Only a handful of times in the five months since the kidnapping.

“He was drunk, hardly a threat to me.” She replies flippantly. “I invited him inside, we talked a while. Are you aware that he hasn’t been seeing Aramis and Porthos?”

“I was.”

“I don’t know how to help them.” Constance says, a hint of desperation in her voice. “I don’t know what I can do.”

“You don’t need to do anything.” Treville says firmly.

“I want to help.”

“We are all grieving in our own ways.”

“Yes,” Constance says forlornly. “But I lost d’Artagnan a long time ago. I mourned him then. The pain is fresh for them.”

“I appreciate your concern, Madame Bonacieux, but I’m afraid none of us know how to deal with this.”

She nods carefully, like every movement is cataclysmic, every gesture devastating. “I see. Thank you for your time, Captain.”

He realises with some surprise that they stand at the gates of the Garrison. Constance lets go of his arm, leaning carefully on her walking stick.

“Let me walk you home.” Treville offers, a little belatedly.

“Nonsense, I am perfectly capable of that feat.” Constance smiles gratefully.

“Very well, Madame. In that case I bid you au revoir.” He pulls his hat from his head, bowing low. “Please do not hesitate to send a message if you have need for anything.”

“I might have to hold you to that, Treville. Look after yourself.”

As soon as Treville enters the Garrison he grabs a soldier training in the yard. “Send a messenger up to my office in an hour or so. I have a missive for Cardinal Richelieu.”


	14. The restless dead, a sardonic smile, and games of trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains gory violence, reference to self-harm and the aftermath of a premature stillbirth.

They bury the Dauphin is an unmarked grave.

They bury her son in a shallow grave, the rich brown dirt piled over the tiny form of the child. No-one talks as they stare down at the all too small remains of what used to be a being. She stands alone, unsupported, even as she knows d’Artagnan is just a word away. She can’t imagine what she looks like for the soldier to be so openly concerned. But she doesn’t give her permission, and he doesn’t ask.

 _What could you say?_  

She cries, long nights in the dark of their room, sometimes with d’Artagnan’s arms warm and strong around her, sometimes so alone it feels like the world is empty. Her barriers are stripped bare, her heart raw with loss, and her body aching for the child she is meant to hold. 

_What words could you use?_

Then the sun rises, all too bright— 

 _How can the world keep turning?_  

— and she wipes the salt from her cheeks, sets her mouth in a firm line and blinks away the remnants of her pain. She binds her chest tight with linen soaked in sage and jasmine oils, fastens her apron around her shrinking waistline, and pretends the world still turns and that she cares, even for a second, about her place in it.

It takes eleven days for her breasts to stop leaking milk. Eleven days after her son was born into the world, warm but lifeless, and already her body is beginning to forget he existed in the first place. That thought alone sends her heart pounding in her ears, her breath too shallow, a furious pain right in the centre of her being. D’Artagnan has to hold her down physically to stop her trying to carve it out. She cries herself dry on the floor, d’Artagnan’s hands warm and heavy on her shoulders.

The physicality of her work and the lack of food meant she never gained much weight during the pregnancy, and it isn’t long before she’s shedding the curves that cradled her child. All that’s left are the silvery stretch marks, like the patterns of sand under the ocean; like lightning splitting across the pale sky of her thighs and stomach. She wears them like a badge of honour, evidence of her sacrifice. _Her child was here,_ they say. _The world tore him cruelly away._

D’Artagnan tells her _it’s not her fault_.

D’Artagnan tells her _he won’t forget_.

D’Artagnan tells her that _her son is in heaven_ , even though neither of them take comfort from those lies any more.

Catalina takes on the majority of Ana’s tasks, spins some delicate lie to Santiago, and by some miracle the birth goes unnoticed, uncommented upon. Miguel stays at arm’s length from her, to scared by the threat of his father, unwilling to push her to the point where she uses her new-found leverage. D’Artagnan swears on every saint he knows that he will kill the other man, but Ana somehow convinces him otherwise. She doesn’t want their position to grow any more unstable. Miguel’s death would mean the loss of what little protection they had left.

D’Artagnan spends long hours silently cleaning his weapons, anger lurking in the depths of his eyes, and she is so grateful that he’s by her side, that she forgets to ask what he’s thinking.

He will tell her in due course.

The sorrow fills her, spiralling like a whirlpool at her core, all too easy to let go and drown in. Guilt and self-loathing, love and loss, all currents tugging her under, deeper and deeper into pain. It’s all tied together, this bundle of inadequacies and sins, her flaws and wounds embracing and choking her. It’s so hard to keep afloat. She’s never felt this lost before.

He’s always there, in the corner of her eye, at the edge of her thoughts, small and fragile and wholly hers. Her child. He crawls clumsily as she washes linen, learns to speak as she scrubs floors, cries wetly as she cooks. His face is round and glowing, cheeks blushed, hair as golden as her own. And when he opens his eyes — if he’d opened his eyes — they were hers, cornflower blue and bright with youth.

She can’t bring herself to let him go.

But he is an anchor, designed to drag her down. And slowly she’s training herself to swim stronger, struggle harder against the pull of the water at her limbs. She can’t afford to be weak. She doesn’t want to be weak anymore.

Spring warms the air and flowers start to bloom across the farmland. The field workers are busy ploughing and sowing the fields for another year’s harvest, and every day she slips fresh blossoms into the room, their fragrance some sign of renewal, or hope; but she doesn’t allow herself that luxury anymore.

D’Artagnan stays quiet, pensive, and slowly she gets the feeling that he’s hiding something, lying to her in some subtle way, but she lets it pass. She trusts him more than anything else in her world.

He will tell her in time.

It becomes easier and easier to fight the current of her heartache, each passing day the wound of her loss becoming more numb. Her son still trips his way through her thoughts, voice high and bubbly, steps ungainly, grip chubby and warm, but there’s an acceptance to his appearance that makes his sweet torture easier to bear.

She’s on her way to draw water when she sees them, d’Artagnan and another man, talking just outside of the slave quarters. D’Artagnan seems ill at ease, hand resting on the pummel of his sword, face drawn with concentration. The other man she recognises after a split second of confusion. The field slave, the man she’s seen d’Artagnan with months ago, talking in the same manner, furtive and wary. 

Dread settles into her limbs, hands shaky as she readjusts the wooden bucket on her hip.

She doesn’t trust that man, doesn’t trust that d’Artagnan hasn’t mentioned him to her, doesn’t like the way he seems to cause that sort of distrust in d’Artagnan. She feels instinctively that the slave is what d’Artagnan is not talking about. Whatever he’s doing with that man is the space between them, all the things left unsaid.

She fights the urge to walk up to them.  

She trusts d’Artagnan. Surely she does.

She trusts d’Artagnan more than anything in this world.

The curiosity eats away at her, some sickly thing inside of her screaming to confront him, slowly corroding the trust that he has earned a thousand times over. The mess of emotions that destabilise her are only exacerbated by the need to know what he’s hiding.

It takes time to build up the courage. The gap between them, the place devoid of words, is uncompromising and vast. Despite her curiosity, there is also the small niggling part of her that says she’s overreacting. 

That night she sits on the edge of their bed, bare feet tracing circles of the floor and her heart is torn. She wants to trust him so badly, but she needs to know. She needs a semblance of control.

The door opens with a creak as d’Artagnan lets himself in. There are rings under his eyes, a worn look on his face. She waits in silence as he unbuckles his weapon belt, listening to the soft noises as he makes himself comfortable. 

“What are you not telling me?” The words seem to come without her consent, a statement that was intended to be angry, defensive, slipping out in weariness.

He looks up at her, a startling openness to his features. “What do you mean?”

“I saw you with that field slave again.” She says, enunciating deliberately.

“Oh.” D’Artagnan huffs out. He cards a hand through his hair, clearly torn, but there is no guilt marring the shape of his lips or the depths of his eyes, just deliberation.

“Well?” She prompts, the anger that she wanted to lead with is coming back slowly now. This isn’t just overreaction, there is something real here, something missing.

“It’s for your safety,” he says evasively, hand looped over the back of his neck, “you need to have plausible deniability.”

“Why would I need that? What are you doing?” She asks snappily, even as the real question lingers behind her lips, _what_ would _you do?_

“It’s not in motion yet, it’s only a plan.” He says reassuringly.

“For _what_?”

“For escape.”

With the two words, the world seems altered somehow, dizzyingly open again. She’d almost forgotten what freedom tasted like. “How?” She whispers it, breath short.

“Deniability.” He reminds, with an edge to his voice, and sits down with a sigh, tension draining from his limbs. “ _Please_ , trust me, Ana. I promise I will tell you, just not while everything is so…delicate.”

“I’m so tired of having to just sit by. I’m so _tired_ of always being protected.” She sounds weary to herself, warped and distant. “When do I get to fight for my own future? When do I get control again?” The vortex roars inside of her, a mess of longing and pain.

“Ana.” D’Artagnan says gently and grabs her hand, tugs her close. “I promise you we will get out of here. I promise you will get your freedom back.” And his eyes are deep with honesty.

 _I trust you_. And she truly believes it now.

The beginning and end of d’Artagnan’s silence starts with commotion. 

Servants gather at the windows, faces drawn with curiosity and horror in equal measures. Maids clutch at aprons and footmen stiffly straighten their doublets in discomfort. There as murmurs of a mob forming out the back of the house, further down near the slave’s quarters. A guard is being punished. 

“Another one.” Someone whispers and it spreads in ripples, lips forming the words in waves.

“What do you think he did?”

“The guards are taking him to the yard." 

“Isn’t that Ana’s—”

“What’ll they do to him?”

“Remember what happened to the last one?” 

The words create a sickening tapestry, laid out before her. She carefully makes her way closer to a window, unwilling to look out, unwilling to give testimony to her fears. When she makes him out, struggling in the grip of two other men, her head goes suddenly light.

“D’Artagnan.” She whispers, and then she runs, stumbling down the stairs and bursting out into the sun. She has to shove her way through the crowd, pushing past slaves and soldiers alike. Every step feels infinite. The crowd heaves and flows, following the wake of d’Artagnan’s limp body. She doesn’t know where he is going, she doesn’t know what is happening, all she knows is she must follow. She has to get to d’Artagnan. 

Finally, the soldiers halt and drop d’Artagnan in the centre of the open yard where a thick wooden pole stands like a monument, casting a heavy shadow across the bare dusty ground. He struggles to his feet, whipping around to face the crowd, and she sees his anger and his terror, written clear and plain in the defensive shift of his stance and the dart of his eyes. He looks so alone, hemmed in by enemy bodies, standing in the shadow of punishment.

“What have I done?” He yells, magnificent in his ire. “What the hell have I done?”

He gets a fist across his jaw for his trouble. He doesn’t waver.

“When did we stop being human?” He’s addressing the crowd, voice carrying across the grounds, men and women bound in servitude and loyalty. “What makes us less than any one of them?” He gestures up towards the manor, words dripping with derision.

This is the first she’s seen him like this in months, so filled with the passion of the fight. He’s burning with it, glowing with battle. It’s some devastating irony.

“Shut up,” one of his captors orders and smashes him across the face again. He clears his throat, face steeled in impassiveness, hand resting lightly on the handle of his whip, then declares to the crowd: “This man dared to cross Master Santiago. His punishment serves as warning.”

The crowd stills as suddenly as Ana’s heart. The air is leaden. 

Someone moves in front of her, she can’t see d’Artagnan’s expression, and by the time she’s slipped past him, it’s too late. Everything is too late.

The men force d’Artagnan to his knees, pull his arms around the pole, snapping metal cuffs tight around his wrists. One of them grabs his collar and tears his shirt apart. It flutters opens, hanging limp and ragged. She can see his back now, scars and fresh wounds smattered across it, muscles rippling under the deep bronze of his skin. Sweat covers him, shining dully across his heaving torso.

The man raises the whip high, thin and dark against the pale sky. The air shatters with a crack.

She can see a fraction of his face from where she’s standing, one of his eyes is fixed on her from under his fringe, dark and intense. There’s pain written across his face, but he doesn’t make a sound, just wraps the chain around his fist, white-knuckled.

_Crack._

The skin across d’Artagnan’s back splits open and a dribble of blood slithers out. She can see his jaw clench.

_Crack._

Another line of red, raised skin.

_Crack. Crack. Crack._

With every sound she winces, but doesn’t close her eyes. She can feel tears, warm and wet, running down her face. She twists her hands up in her dress. His eye never leaves hers.

_Crack. Crack._

There’s a spray of crimson with every strike, clinging to the leather and metal of the whip, pulled in a gruesome arc through the air.

_Crack. Crack._

She can’t tear her eyes away, can’t bear to be the cause of this pain. Her musketeer, by her side and guarding her for so long, so faithfully, and here he is, in agony because of her. Strung up and beaten like he’s property, like they own his body and can mutilate it at will. There’s something inhumane and raw about the emotionless set of the guards’ faces, the even and vicious set of the whip.

Every strike only reaffirms her faith in him, only strengthens her admiration, and deepens her guilt.

_Crack. Crack. Crack._

By the time they reach twenty, his body is going slack, his back a fleshy, bloody mess. But somehow, impossibly, he’s still conscious, still breathing. He swallows visibly, and a strand of saliva and blood drips from his lips.

They let him down roughly, pulling the chain from the top of the pole and he collapses, barely managing to catch himself on his forearms in the dust. One of the men kicks him harshly in the ribs and he crumples onto his side.

He still hasn’t made a sound.

Slowly, excruciatingly, he picks himself up. His eyelids are fluttering, his mouth tight. As he walks, each step a momentous effort, blood runs down his back and around his wrists, and drips into the dirt.

He doesn’t speak when he reaches her, doesn’t lean on her, instead he lets her guide him gently to their room. The guards don't stop them. The crowd parts for them.

She carefully cuts the remains of the shirt from his body, as he sits of the bed, head bowed. He lets her wash his back with clumsy hands, shudders running through his body, tensing his muscles, when she dabs the cloth through the deeper cuts. He presses a wine bottle into her hands when she’s done, the glass cool against her skin, and she knows what he’s asking her to do.

He presses a hand to his mouth, but his cries leak from between his pale fingers.

She tears a linen sheet into long strips and binds it around his torso, tight as she dares, feeling the heat of his skin against her hands. His eyelids flutter with her every touch. Attempts to pry the cuffs off his wrists lead to painful winces and little success, so she settles for wiping away the blood from around them, unable to get to the torn flesh beneath the tight metal. Every movement jangles the length of chain hanging from the cuffs, and she flinches at the sound, a stark reminder of their reality.

He sits there for a long moment when she’s done, silent, his head bent forward. She can’t read him now, can’t see past him in this instance. Every line in his body is tight with suffering, still not a sound passing his lips.

Fear and shame are acrid in her gut. What if she can’t save him? What if she is not strong enough? What if they are both too shattered to pull themselves back together? 

“D’Artagnan.” She whispers, hardly daring to break the silence surrounding him, shielding him.

“It didn’t work.” He says finally. “I failed. I’m sorry.”

A helpless tear slips down her cheek, the whirlpool roaring in her ears as she looks at him, her brave musketeer, crippled by his attempt to save her. “Don’t apologise.” She says fiercely. “I— I am the one who should be apologising to you. If I was not here, you would have escaped long ago.”

Miracle of all miracles, he cleaves a sardonic smile into his lips, eyes hidden behind the ink of his hair. “You have more faith in my abilities than I do, Majesty.”

She presses a hand to her mouth, tries to muffle the sob that escapes, but she is unable. She turns away from him, tears blurring her vision, gasping with the pain inside of her. Then his strong arms wrap around her and she collapses backwards into his embrace, limp with turmoil. She lets him hold her, lets him be her anchor, even as the guilt of their roles threatens to suffocate her.

They fall asleep like that, Ana curled in the warmth of d’Artagnan’s arms, tears drying on her face. It’s as she’s drifting off that he murmurs, so soft she almost doesn’t hear it, “I promise you, I will get you out of here. I will keep you safe, no matter the cost.”

They come for him the next morning, drag him from their bed in the early hours of the day. She screams and screams, her composure shattered. She can’t do this without him. She can’t be without him. _What are you doing to him?_

But they shove her back into the room, lock the door behind them, and no matter how she screams and begs and slams her body against the door, d’Artagnan doesn’t return.

After a time, she collapses to the floor, the helplessness swallowing her, leaving her exhausted and weak. Her hand drifts to the hollow of her stomach, caressing it unconsciously and forlornly. She doesn’t bother to pray anymore, doesn’t have it within herself to continue to hope when everything around her is empty, and everyone she loves is gone.

The door opens again at sunrise the next morning and a guard tells her roughly to get back to work. She doesn’t have it in herself argue. She picks herself up of the floor, pulls herself together, and binds her battered heart tightly in bandages of determination.

At midday, she brings a tray of food up to Santiago and d’Artagnan stands at attention by his side, gaze blank. The relief and affection is overwhelming. She knows she can’t talk to him, can’t show a moment of weakness or hesitation. Something like that could mean her death. Something like that could mean the loss of what little protection they have from Santiago. She places the tray down carefully, controlling the tremors in her hands. Every movement is guarded, measured. She doesn’t look up; she bows her head neatly and moves as inconspicuously as possible.

In hindsight, there was never the chance that she could leave unnoticed.

She’s moving away when the tight hand latches around her wrist. She freezes, heart pounding in her throat, head stuffed to the brim with possibilities, to full of panic for thought.

“Stay, chérie.” Santiago’s voice is frighteningly warm, too pleasant to be anything other than a trap. “Stay for a moment with me.”

She has no choice. She turns to him, relieved as his grip loosens on her wrist. 

“Good girl.” He smiles. “I thought we could have a little chat, just you and I.” His gaze flickers over to where d’Artagnan stands, and for the first time she notices the tightness of the Musketeer’s jaw, the pallor of his skin. He is barely restraining himself, she can tell, and barely upright. She can see agony written in the sharp line of tendons and the distance of his stare. She wonders with dawning horror how long he has been standing there. How long has it been since he slept?

“You see, your little soldier here, your star-crossed love—” she doesn’t have it in her to correct him “—he did a very bad thing.” He speaks in a low drawling tone, somehow all the more malevolent for the patronisation. “Do you know what he did? Did he let you in on his little plot?”

She shakes her head, throat tight. This was a truth she could tell, even if it hurt her to admit.  

“Ah,” Santiago says, and there is that shift of focus again, to d’Artagnan and back. She understands quickly. This isn’t about her. This is a test for him. Another punishment for him. “Then you don’t know what he did. Let me tell you.”

She feels the knot in her stomach tighten.

“He had the bright idea to try and contact someone, get a letter off the grounds. And here I thought you two were happy here.” He speaks with incredulousness shifting his words, the line so fine between mockery and anger, she doesn’t know where they stand. What can she do?

Her mind suddenly flies back the the King, her Louis. He could be like this sometimes, so derisive and self-righteous that she never could quite discern his feelings, could never quite get a hold of what he expected for her. It was like dancing on a knife’s edge, never quite knowing which step would slip and spell death. She feels that now, this aimless terror and painful anticipation.

“Luckily we have some among us who are loyal. Did you know of the slave, Nicolas? A Parisian boy. Good worker. We rewarded him a time back, it obviously struck him as generous.”

She remembers now, all that time ago, when she’d been lying in the dark and the cold, clinging onto the sound of d’Artagnan’s voice. A conversation of threats and revelations whispered into the night. _The actions of one person have an impact on all of us._

Nicolas. The slave without a name, and the name without a face are suddenly reconciled. One and the same. The Parisian that had betrayed d’Artagnan.

“I have never met him.” A half-truth.

“Just as well. I’m not sure you would like him much in any case.”

“Neither am I.” She replies civilly.

Santiago laughs uproariously. “Bien, ma chérie, bien.”

She flushes, startled and mortified. She shouldn’t be making him happy. She hates that he’s pleased with her. _She should be slitting his throat._  

The violent urge itching through her hand startles her. She feels jittery and unstable, unable to keep calm or centred. She has no idea how d’Artagnan manages this feeling, this urge to cut and tear and slash. She has no idea what to do. A mess of turbulent wrenching emotion swirls through her. 

“That will be all.” She hears Santiago say dismissively. “Return to your tasks, minette.”

The emotion drains out of her in a rush, leaving her limp with relief, and she curtsies sloppily before hurriedly exiting. She presses herself to the wall outside Santiago’s rooms, heart pounding in her throat and tries to regain her composure.

D’Artagnan returns to their rooms that night, face drawn and pale, hands shaky with pain. And she so happy, so grateful that he’s by her side that she forgets to ask how he’s feeling.

He will tell her in due time.

But of course, she doesn’t know that this is only the beginning of his silence.


	15. A doomed heartbeat, a multitude of sacrifices and a man who rivals the stars

D’Artagnan wakes with his heart in his throat and pain burnt in lines down his spine. His body spasms for a minute as he retches over the side of the bed, head fuzzy and distant with agony. The room swims around him, the light dim and refracting oddly off bare walls. He can feel his heartbeat, pounding out a rhythm that leaves him breathless.

He clutches at empty air, reaching for his sword, for something to steady himself. There is static in his ears, all consuming and dizzying.

He loses his balance, collapsing off the bed and onto the floor. His hands shake as he tries to pull himself up, and his muscles seem too weak to hold himself up. Black envelopes the edges of his vision and it’s all he can do to curl himself into a ball and try to contain the shudders that wrack him.

The room is too cold.

His skin is on fire.

He feels like he is bursting at the seams, some energy inside of him too much for the contains of his frame. The world is shifting and transforming around him, breathing in and out like the lungs of some giant, the walls of the room collapsing and receding with the race of his heartbeat.

The darkness, when it finally claims him, is blessed stillness.

When he wakes again, the room exists statically. Solid stone walls surround him, reassuring in their equilibrium. He lifts a hand to his aching head and there is the rustle and clink of chains. Slowly he runs his hand through his hair, feeling along his scalp. He hisses low as he feels a swollen lump at the base of his skull.

Carefully, he moves his hands again, trying to get his feet underneath him. Metal cuffs bind his wrists, tight over stained linen bandages. He traces the length of chain to the wall where it is looped around a bracket embedded deep in the stone. 

He toys with the thought that this situation is hardly foreign to him, then discards it as unnecessary.

He manages to crawl over to the wall, every movement causing pain to lance up his back. He can feel the stiffness there, the tug of the scabs and the weakness of the damaged flesh and muscle. He pulls himself up, standing only by virtue of the wall’s solidity. His head spins for a second, vision almost whiting out, knees weak, but he clings to the stone and desperately tries to regain his balance. A helpless moan forces itself through his lips. 

There is a misplaced sense of doom deep in the pit of his stomach. 

D’Artagnan forcibly evens his breath, pushing down the waves of pain that threaten to drown him. He is not certain he can trust his weight to his legs, distant and fragile as they are, disconnected from the rest of him.

He’s shattered, he can feel the cracks in his will, in his strength, in his body. Physical and mental things, all torn apart by the strike of a whip. 

He sags against the wall unwillingly, eyelids fluttering. It takes an extraordinary amount of stubbornness to stay conscious. But then, Athos has always said he possessed that quality in spades.

The sudden thought of Athos makes his stomach turn, and he has to forcibly stop himself from retching again. The problem is not Athos himself as much as it is everything attached to him, to the icy blue eyes, to that rare smile that seemed to appear when least expected to thoroughly destroy d’Artagnan. _Trust. Love. Safety. Betrayal._

Carefully he turns himself around, hands pressed against the cold of the stone to steady himself, and tries to take stock of the room. The cell is large, large enough that he can walk the extent of his chains and be a distance from the heavy wooden door. All it possesses is a straw mattress and mould that clings to the stones in the same desperate manner as him. Slowly memories of the past day are filtering back to him in flashes of colour and sensation.

_I failed._

The words ring inside his head, awful and defined.

_I’m sorry._

Then her face, so soft and sad, worn with the loss of a much older women, and those eyes so completely blue. 

He swears vehemently to himself as his eyes dart around the room. If he wasn’t trapped before, bound by duty and affection and corruption to this place, he certainly is now, chained and manacled, wrapped in stone walls.

And failing, still, to protect her. 

_I’ll keep you safe. I’ll get you out of here, no matter the cost. I promise._

The words sound empty now, torn away with him in the dead of the night as Ana screams and screams. 

He glances down at himself, clad only in breeches and an open shirt with linen wrapped the length of his torso. He doesn’t need to see his back to know that the bandages will be reddened and congealed with blood, he can feel the pain with every breath.

_Aramis will kill me if I’ve broken my ribs again._

The thought is oddly familiar, some sickly déjà vu, remnant of a time where he still believed that he could be saved. That he might even see Aramis again. Now, that was a distant possibility, another thought to toy with for a moment before it burnt him with the sheer loss attached to it.

Escape is the next thought in his mind, as it has tended to be for months, and it is that thought which condemned him to this prison in the first place. He doesn’t shy away from it, not exactly, but he carefully partitions his mind in a deliberate attempt to ignore the overwhelming urge to just stop. Stop struggling, stop bleeding, stop existing. 

_Those thoughts aren’t helpful. They won’t save you._ He can almost hear Porthos’ voice as he thinks it, low and gravelly, crooning in his ear.

He lets out another string of blasphemous words. 

_Why now?_ He wonders, _why did they have to turn up inside his head now?_

He is still conflicted about them. It’s been months, long stretching moments of fear and pain, where he’s been forced to remove them from his thoughts. He couldn’t afford hope to make him weak and distracted from his duty. But there is the very real feeling of betrayal. If not him, surely they would’ve come for the Queen? In some distant way he can rationalise their desertion of him, after all he is little more than a commoner, and they could have hardly formed an attachment to him as he has to them. Though it shatters his heart to think it, he has never been under the delusion that they loved him as much as each other. It solidifies his reasoning.

Guilt surges through him. He has proven himself unworthy of his pauldron. He has proven to his country that he can barely protect the Queen, especially when it matters most. He’s failed to even send word to the King that the Queen lives. He has squandered his small bits of freedom by waiting, trying to stay alive for her, when he should have immediately given his life to get her to safety. 

That very first week, when they had managed to get rid of the shackles, and they stood at the edge of freedom, the dark forest stretching out before them, he shouldn’t have hesitated faced with the barrel of a pistol. He should have made Ana run, shouldn’t have listened as she pleaded with him. His duty was to get her home, instead his weakness condemned them both to slavery, to servitude for a foreign noble. His weakness brought the Dauphin’s death. And the guilt is slowly consuming him. 

A series of heavy thumps on the door rouse him out of his thoughts. He pushes himself away from the wall, the room tilting dramatically for a moment before settling itself again. 

“Stand away from the door.” A voice bellows.

“I don’t have a whole lot of choice in that matter.” D’Artagnan spits.

“Hands on your head.” 

He complies, scowling. A hiss of pain escape his lips as he stretches the muscles of his back.

Santiago steps into the cell with a frown on his face and a dagger in his hand. 

“D’Artagnan, d’Artagnan.” He smiles, soft and slow. “Just so that we both have a very clear idea of how this will go, I should tell you now that I thoroughly expected this from you. I really did. I had hoped that the longer you stayed by my side, the less these petty notions of escape would occupy your thoughts, but I feel I underestimated your will.” He twirls the dagger through his fingertips, the blade catching the light. “So thank you for reminding me of the work I have yet to do with you, and of the reasons I selected you in the first place.” He paces towards d’Artagnan slowly, a predatory gaze twisting his face.

D’Artagnan stares back stoically, unwilling to give the man the pleasure of seeing him flinch at the flash of the knife. 

Santiago moves closer and closer, seemingly testing d’Artagnan’s boundaries, eyes fixed on him like he’s a wild animal, something uncontrollable and dangerous. D’Artagnan feels like snarling just to prove him right. 

Before he can think, Santiago has the dagger pressed to his throat, he can feel the line of cold steel against the vulnerable flesh. “I own you.” The man hisses, and his breath is hot on d’Artagnan’s cheek. “Don’t forget that. I paid for you and you are _mine_ to keep.”

“I will never be yours.” D’Artagnan spits back, even as he can feel the bite of steel.

Santiago draws back, and there is something unreadable in his hooded eyes. “I thought you might say that.” He gestures behind him and two guards enter the room, the set of their mouths merciless. A deep orange glow lights up the room. One of the men carries a piece of metal, twisted into a stamp and white hot. 

“What are you doing?’ D’Artagnan hisses, and he draws back, trying to press himself into the corner of the cell. 

“Staking my claim.” Santiago replies, and for the first time, there is no levity in his expression. There is nothing but emptiness. 

His heart is pounding again, beating a tempest against his ribcage. Desperate and trapped. “Stay _away_ from me.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“ _Damn you_.” 

They pin his arms outstretched against the stone walls of his cell. They bare the skin over his heart.

He can feel the heat radiating from the brand. He knows what they are going to do. Santiago doesn’t stay to watch. 

D’Artagnan _screams_. 

The smell of burning flesh sears it’s way past the pain.

They send a medic into the cell. It must be hours later, because the pain has receded enough for him to be coherent. The woman is young and kind, pretty with a gentle touch. She stitches the deeper wounds on his back while he lies gasping and trembling. She doesn’t seem to mind when he grabs for her hand. He comments dryly on the neatness of her needlework. “Though I once knew a man who’s were a work of art.”

She presses salve to his wounds with a laugh, her soft fingers gently rubbing it in. He apologises for the state of the room. She smiles so sadly that he almost cries. 

“What’s your name, señor?” 

“What does it matter?” He chuckles softly and painfully to himself. “What does it matter anymore?” 

“You speak poor Spanish.”

“It wasn’t long ago that I couldn’t speak any.”

“Are you a soldier, señor?”

“Are you a slave?” He returns.

She laughs breathily. “Aren’t we all?”

The door opens again at sunrise the next morning. He doesn’t have it in himself to resist when the guard tells him he’s on duty in half an hour. He picks himself up of the floor, pulls himself together, and binds his battered spirit tightly in ropes of determination. 

It takes every bit of his concentration to make his way back to the servant’s quarters. He pauses only long enough to snatch up his scabbard and ease on a jerkin, concealing the swathe of bandages beneath the dark leather. The floor pitches and rolls beneath his feet, what was once immutable is fluid, and more than once he has to grab at the walls to keep what little balance he maintains.

Somehow he makes it to his post in time. Santiago doesn’t even acknowledge his presence as d’Artagnan takes his place by his side and settles a steadying hand on the pommel of his sword.

Everything feels exceedingly fragile, like a step in the wrong place will cause the whole world to shatter. The skin over his heart burns through his clothes, the wound that proclaims his subjugation far more than any chains. 

When Ana glides into the room at midday, carrying a silver tray and shadows under her eyes, d’Artagnan can’t bear to look at her. There is a feeling deep in his chest almost like guilt. He’s betrayed her and his country, all in his clumsy attempts to keep her safe. And now he’s bound here, tied with burnt flesh to this man and this land in an irrevocable way.

He’s marred, scarred and twisted, and if he meets Ana’s eyes, she will see and she will understand the depths of his involuntary betrayal.

“Stay chérie.” Santiago says, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the man grip Ana’s wrist.

His breath catches, the room sways alarmingly. 

“I thought we could have a little chat, just you and I.” Santiago drawls, sweet and dark as molasses.

D’Artagnan’s attention slips as Santiago talks, his mind drifting and spinning, detached. He notices, in some vague way, that Ana is trembling, but the effort it would take to act on any observation is insurmountable. His limbs are too weak, weighted down and immobile, and his thoughts move slow and sticky.

“That will be all.” Santiago says finally, and Ana flies from the room, face pale.

D’Artagnan watches her leave. He wants to call out, reach out to her, but he is incapable in many ways.  

He returns to their rooms that night with pain roaring through him, a vicious destructive beast.

And Ana doesn’t ask where he has been, though he is unsure whether he could have told her if she had. She doesn’t talk, just buries her face in his chest, hiccoughing and shaking. He flinches and hisses slightly, but wraps his arms around her, and tries to comfort her without words.

She might ask, in time. 

Weeks pass and d’Artagnan’s body heals, even as his mind festers. He can barely recognise himself anymore. It feels like that of a stranger, threaded with scars and worn down. Summer bleeds into Autumn, the days growing steadily shorter, the trees exploding into bright colour.

He doesn’t attempt another escape. 

Their position is so precarious, with both Ana and himself directly in Santiago’s sights. If nothing else, Ana is safe here, in limbo between the danger of escape and the freedom of home. Santiago’s attention guarantees them safety and ease of living as long as they behave. It’s as soon as they step out of line that they are in danger again, danger of his disposition turning against them.

All they can do is bide their time.

The harvest begins anew, and with the need for labour comes new slaves. Santiago brings him along, the day they arrive, and he is forced to stand and watch as young men and women have the last of their being stripped away from them. They are forced to become objects before his eyes, worth little more than the silver that Miguel hands over for them. Santiago moves between them, assessing and malevolent. He picks out a younger girl, whose dark eyes fill with unshed tears, and orders d’Artagnan to take her to the kitchens. The rest go to the fields.

D’Artagnan grabs the girl’s hand, gentle as he can whilst still in Santiago’s vision. The girl goes without resistance, but the tears spill silvery down her cheeks.

He feels ill to his stomach. 

Sometimes it was easy to believe he was free, that his training and fighting and loyalty were born of free will and a commission. He found himself slipping, lulled into a sense of security even as his back ached and his chest burned. It was easy to believe when he came back to Ana in the evenings, just the two of them tucked away in their room, safe in the midst of the servants’ quarters. Her hands would be blistered from work, and her body would still bear the marks of the atrocities she’d suffered, but she would smile when she saw him. It was easy to forget who she had used to be, what she’d used to take for granted, how there used to be tradition and society and expectations layered between them like shields.

As the first leaves begin to fall, an air of anticipation builds within the guards ranks like electricity. Something important is on the horizon.

Santiago challenges d’Artagnan again and again, seemingly taking it as a personal challenge to perfect him, purify him. Every night he returns to the room, more often than not, limping and bloodstained. Every morning he rises before the sun to train and fight. 

The carriage arrives with cold weather, guards with the Spanish royal crest emblazoned on their uniforms spilling into the grounds. The man that steps from the carriage is tall, with dark coiffed hair and jewelled shoes. The tilt of his chin is aristocratic; the set of his shoulders are that of a man used to obedience.

“Your Majesty.” And Santiago bows as d’Artagnan’s world pulls itself apart.

He bows on instinct, hair falling in front of his face as his mind races. The future is blown open, wide with possibilities. Already he feels victorious. He is so close, so _goddamn_ close to fulfilling his duty. This is no longer a waiting game, action is necessary, and his blood is roaring with the urgency of battle. 

Santiago meaningfully nods his head towards the carriage, and d’Artagnan steps forward to help the King down. 

“Señor Moncayo.” The King’s voice is silken, rich and lustrous. His eyes glimmer with pleasure, like the essence of life fills him so completely it escapes through the cracks.

“Please, Majesty, there is no need to stand on formality. You are welcome in my home.”

The King laughs with his whole body, and d’Artagnan is struck with the same dizzying attraction as when he first met Ana. They shine like stars, so unattainable in their beauty. “But, Moncayo, we are all bound by the same laws of society.”

“Never let it be said that you are not a fair sovereign.”

“You always were adept in flattery, Moncayo. Now, if you would be so kind as to offer me a drink?”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

The King downs his first glass sprawled across a couch in the sitting room. Santiago toys with his drink by the sideboard, face guarded carefully. D’Artagnan stands at his usual post, by Santiago’s side, hands folded in front of him.

“Is there a reason for your visit, Majesty?” Santiago asks finally, shattering the silence. 

“I rarely do things without reason, Moncayo.” He replies with a grin. “I have heard many stories about your establishment here.” 

Santiago inclines his head, “To have caught the eye of el Rey is a great honour indeed.”

“Is this him?” The King asks, and finally his gaze lands on d’Artagnan, and it’s warm but hard, almost respectful. “The Frenchman who could defeat any one of your guards?” 

D’Artagnan bows low. “Your Majesty.” He says, as cleanly as he can in Spanish. 

The King smiles again, and it’s like looking into the sun. “I have heard stories of you, señor. Fascinating things. Is it true you took the whip without a sound? Fought off three men to defend your lover? That you bought her safety with your submission?” 

“Talk is talk, your Majesty.” D’Artagnan replies evenly.

“Absolutely right, my man.” The King says enthusiastically. “But you don’t mind if we put your reputation to the test?” 

D’Artagnan rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I serve at your will, Majesty.”

“How do you do it, Moncayo?” The King exclaims delightedly. “An enemy’s soldier so perfectly submissive.” 

“It took some work.” Santiago replies, but there is the lilt of a pleased smile at his lips. “What you see is the product of almost a year’s training.”

“Superb.” The King gets to his feet and circles d’Artagnan, a hand brushing across the curves of his biceps and planes of his chest. 

D’Artagnan stifles the urge to slap his hand away. To twist and break his arm. This man is the best chance he has to save Ana. This man holds France’s future in the palm of his hand.

“What test would be sufficient, Majesty?” He asks, voice rough with the effort of keeping his temper in check. 

“A fight. We are base beings after all, are we not? A duel seems suitable.” 

“Swords?” Santiago asks.

“Absolutely.” The King replies, and the glimmer in his eyes is a fire.

“Come, the yard is empty. The perfect place for a duel.” Santiago says, and the confidence and possessiveness in his voice makes d’Artagnan’s gut curl in revulsion. “Pick any one of your men, Majesty, I can promise he will defeat them soundly.”

It makes sense now, Santiago’s obsessiveness, the training day after day. He is to be shown off, the perfect tamed beast for Santiago to claim and impress the King. He has no choice but to fight. The King has to remain long enough to discover Ana, and he has no leverage.

The King’s champion is a massive man, heavier built than Porthos, a nasty gleam in his eye. He sheds his cloak and stretches menacingly, muscles bulging as he swings his sword. 

“First blood.” The King cries out delightedly, and settles himself in his seat.

The air is cold, a light breeze swirling around his ankles. Santiago’s grip on his shoulder is tight as he hisses in d’Artagnan’s ear, “shirt off.” 

And he doesn’t have a choice. He is so close.

He slides the shirt off and releases his sword from his sheath. He can feel the King’s eyes on him, a hungry gaze. The brand on his chest burns afresh, every scar on display to prove his subjugation. Santiago had marked him immutably. Every ridged line, the puckered skin, the shadows of bruises that dust his ribs, they all act as ball and chain. Santiago has written his name in burnt skin and sealed the bond between them.

He scowls as the thoughts pass through his head, carving a pattern through the air with his sword. All he has to do now is focus on winning this fight. He has no intention of losing to a Spanish soldier, no intention of losing the King’s attention. Not while Ana is still in danger.

“Impress me, Frenchman.” The King calls and he flutters his handkerchief encouragingly.

“As your Majesty wishes.”

At the first kiss of steel against steel, everything fades away. His blood roars in his ears, the blade becomes a live wire in his grip. He sees nothing but here and now, lost in the movements that are so instinctive, honed into him. 

It takes a few movements, _parry slash thrust_ , and the tip of his blade flickers below the other man’s guard, blood blooming on his shirt. He drops back, breath coming fast, adrenaline hot in his veins. “First blood.” He says and raises his blade in a smooth salute.

“Bravo.” The King murmurs. “But a brief sport.”

“Would your Majesty like to raise the stakes?” Santiago offers, a smile spreading across his face.

“An excellent idea. To the death.” The words ring out from the King’s soft lips, a slight smile twisting the architecture of his face. His eyes are darker somehow, a sickening indifference leaking through the mask of his expression. 

“As you wish, your Majesty.” Santiago waves the two men back into position. There is a slight discomfort on his face, the slightest bit of nerves. Perhaps he wasn’t as confident in d’Artagnan’s ability as he said.

An awful temptation creeps up on d’Artagnan as he readies himself again. Lose the fight. Let the other man carve him into bits and leave him scattered on the field. It’s only the thought of Ana that keeps his mind focused on the task at hand. She is so close.

The world fades away again. This time the man is rougher, the force of his strikes blinding. He is desperate, and the desperation makes him sloppy. D’Artagnan tries hard to make it as swift and merciful as possible. He refuses to let another man die without honour. 

He pulls the man close as he slashes his blade across the other man’s throat, letting the blood stain his skin, dribbling deep red down his torso. He holds him as the life fades from his eyes and his body goes limp, a dead weight.

The King claps. Santiago releases a breath.

D’Artagnan tries to feel pity for the man he killed, feel anything at all. All he can think of is the cadence of Ana’s laugh.

Santiago leads the King back into the sitting room as d’Artagnan slowly gathers up his clothes. He doesn’t bother to wipe the man’s blood off himself. As he buckles up his jerkin, the King’s guard drags the man’s body away. Their eyes are hard and unforgiving. 

He returns to his position at Santiago’s side expressionless. The blood is warm and tacky against his skin. The King enquires about the weather. 

That’s when the door opens. 

That’s when everything changes.

Ana enters and the light catches the gentle curl of her hair, golden bright. Her gaze downcast, long lashes flutter as she balances a laden silver tray. She looks up, brilliant blue eyes flashing. 

The tray tips, her grip suddenly weak. It inscribes an arc through the air, water flying in glittering droplets, chinaware shattering against the floor in explosions of white. Her pink lips part slightly.

“Philip.” She gasps the word and it seems too perfect.

The King of Spain lifts his head. It seems to take him a moment, an achingly long second, but then he almost glows with joy. “Ana Maria.” In a few strides, he clears the length of the room and sweeps his sister into his arms. They fit perfectly together.

“Mi hermano pequeño.” She grabs his face in her slim hands and presses a light kiss to the tip of his nose, overcome with joy. D’Artagnan can see the lines of her body lighten, like the weight of the world is suddenly lifted off of her shoulders.

Something aches deep inside him.

Philip laughs high and bubbling. “Oh I have missed you, my dearest sister.” His expression shifts in an instant, his light quickly morphing in darkness. “How are you here? Why are you not with your husband in Paris?”

“I—” Ana suddenly seems to remember where she is. Her eyes dart to where Santiago stands, confusion and terror clearly warring over his face. “I was kidnapped.” She says finally, and it almost sounds like she is admitting it to herself. “A year ago.”

“A year…” Philip growls. “It is of no consequence now. It is a discussion for a later time.” 

“Your Majesty, I had no idea.” Santiago interjects, and for the first time, there is no hint of mirth in his face, only carefully controlled desperation.

“Of course, Moncayo. You had no way of knowing. I am pleased she ended up here instead of someplace worse. Before she came into your possession is another matter, and one I won’t darken your household with.” 

“I will have a discussion with the man who sold her to me. We cannot have abductions sullying our trade.” Santiago reassures.

D’Artagnan nearly snaps, then. He clings to his temper with the barest thread of patience. He can’t ruin this now, not with Ana so close to freedom.

“I’m sorry to cut my visit short, Moncayo, but it appears there are more pressing issues to deal with. My sister must take priority. We will be departing in the morning.” 

“I’ll make the necessary arrangements, your Majesty.” Santiago shoots d’Artagnan a weighted look. _Don’t make trouble_.  

A year ago, d’Artagnan would’ve wilfully ignored him, but a year ago, d’Artagnan was not the same man with the same responsibilities as he has now. With the Queen so close to freedom, he cannot afford for anything to go wrong. 

She doesn’t return to their room that night. He doesn’t sleep. 

The King’s entourage departs early in the morning. Ana clings to her brother’s side, looking impossibly insubstantial, the tension disappeared from her shoulders, standing tall for the first time in a year. The tilt of her chin is regal, her movements measured. Her eyes dart up to meet d’Artagnan’s where he stands at duty by Santiago.

Something fractures between them. 

“D’Artagnan was my guard.” Ana blurts out, as though they are words she has held onto for a time, clumsy sharp things. Her eyes are viciously conflicted, guilt and love swimming in their depths. “He is a French Musketeer. He must come with us.”

Philip looks down at her with pity. “Ana…”

And d’Artagnan realises, before the words even come out of the other man’s mouth, he realises that this is it. This is his last sacrifice.

“He was paid for fairly.” Philip says softly, arm tight around Ana’s waist. “He is nothing more than a commoner; his purchase was legitimate. I cannot be seen to be taking property from my subjects without justification.”  

Ana seems speechless then, like the concept is beyond her grasp. “He saved me.” She says, a little breathlessly. “He saved me, Philip.”

“Then he has my thanks.” Philip murmurs. “But he cannot come with us. He is Moncayo’s asset, and a valuable one to be sure.”

Ana looks to d’Artagnan wretchedly. “I can’t leave you.”

“It’s okay.” He replies calmly. “Go, please.”

Her cheeks glisten with tears as she pulls herself from her brother’s grip, running to d’Artagnan. “Forgive me.” She grabs his hands, but the guards holding d’Artagnan wrench him away. Sobs wrack her slight frame as Philip tugs her away. “D’Artagnan.” She cries out. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He smiles, the expression pulling strangely on his face, and he can feel a weight shedding from him. “Meu amiga.”

“ _D’Artagnan_.” She calls desperately. 

“Ana—” Is all he manages before she’s swept away into the carriage, clinging to her brother.

Guards swarm suddenly, both royal and common, and the carriage is obscured from view. D’Artagnan can hear the crunch of the gravel underneath it’s wheels, as his Queen is pulled from him, borne away to safety. All he can do is drop to his knees, sagging with relief. His duty is done.

Ana is safe.


	16. Impossibilities, forgotten things and heart stopping colour

Ana wakes in a soft warm bed, a completely foreign feeling.

She inspects the feeling for a moment, lost in the sensation of billowing sheets and the downy pillow beneath her head, before coming to the conclusion that she needs to get up.

She’s shrouded in a loose, cream nightgown with lace trimming that brushes the tips of her toes as she walks, her bare feet light on the carpeted floors. The room around her is familiar—oddly so—familiar in the ways of dreams, some indescribable feeling of duplicity, of the warped reflection of reality.

The main problem was the impossibility of it all. The complete ridiculousness of the echoing ceilings high above her, the inconceivability of that man standing at the end of the hall, shoulders broad, chin sharp, and hair tightly curling at his shoulders.

Because that was a man she hadn’t seen in years.

That was a man for whom she had waited and prayed. It was a man she’d found herself on the opposite side of a war from, whose every letter she had craved for. Yet they had only been a paltry shadow, a flimsy sketch of the man he was, because that man she had known better than herself, she had raised him, played with him, fought him, loved him. 

That man is her brother.

He turns towards the sound of her footsteps, the warm light catching on his edges, on the lace around his neck and the jewelled rings on his fingers.

“Ana Maria.” The words are soft, familiar and somehow intrinsically different.

“Philip.” All at once it hits her. A sheer wall of emotion, crashing over her and drowning her in its embrace. She stumbles forwards into her brother’s waiting arms. She clings tightly to his waist, nose pressed into the lace ruffle of his collar as she tries desperately not to cry. Distantly, she notices that he smells the same. There is the scent of musky floral perfume, of parchment and wax, but underneath he has the same essence. Her brother.

That’s when she starts to sob wetly, safe in her brother’s grip, losing every ounce of control that she’d clung so tightly to. She lets herself go limp, lets the tears trace her cheeks, lets every moment of terror and anger and grief spill its way out of her.

He just holds her and doesn’t let her go.

They eat breakfast together, trading soft words across the expanse of the white tablecloth. Every morsel tastes like spun gold on her tongue. Crisp pastries melt in her mouth, foreign fruits burst with juice, meats are spiced and delicate.

She feels molten and impossibly light, happiness spiralling through her, trailing golden warmth. She feels safe, so truly safe that for a time she lets herself forget.

His jokes are familiar wordplay, his smiles the same curve of his lips as when he was a child. And his words, those glorious things that she used to crave for in written form, are now attached to his deep, rich voice.

And for a while, she forgets.

He has grown so much since they last saw each other, both mere children, traded between countries as silken thread to tie them together. They represented peace then, as their age-soft hands clutched those of their partners in the farce. Louis had been so young, haughty and commanding, but he had smiled at her with youthful naïvety, almost like he believed they were already in love. Philip had stood to her other side, small hand wrapped around Elisabeth’s, the tiny French Princess. He had looked over at her, eye watery with tears as together they swore themselves away, mere pawns in a larger game.

Now she is a Queen, and he a King.

Now he is tall and she slight.

Now they have borders between them, political chasms, bridged only by words inked into paper and flow across on wings of hope and old love.

“How is Elisabeth?” She asks after a time, “And your son?”

The mention brings a brilliant smile to Philip’s lips. “He is well. A beautiful boy and a worthy heir.” He looks at her curiously. “Word was sent that you were with child? Is it safe in France?”

Her heart stops.

It must show on her face, because Philip frowns concernedly. “What is it, Ana?”

“I—” She swallows the words, her throat too tight. Her insides are air, light and empty, a sickening vertigo.

Philip reaches out across the table, rucking up the cream tablecloth beneath his elbows. “You don’t need to—”

“But I do.” She interrupts, because if not him then to who does she break the silence? “I was barely three months pregnant when they took us.”

Philip grabs at her hands, eyes deep and umber, fingers twining between hers.  _ If not him then who? Who else does she have? _

“D’Artagnan, he was a Musketeer assigned to my guard. He placed himself between me and the battle, and when they took me, they took him too.” The memories lurk behind the words, flashes of rouged leaves, the shuffling chain of slaves. “They marched us over the French border. We tried to escape, but they caught us and I—” she almost chokes then, stumbling over the words, “I stopped him from sacrificing himself for me.”

“You were sold?”

“We were lucky.” She says breathlessly. “We never went to market, Santiago’s son paid for us quickly.”

“And you worked on his farm?”

“Maybe a month, then I caught his eye.” She speaks slow and stilted, unable to meet Philip’s gaze. “He decided I was pretty enough to work in the house. It took three men to stop d’Artagnan from slaughtering Santiago.”

Philip huffs out a laugh. “So the rumours were true, in part.”

She smiles helplessly. “Aren’t they just?”

“Your child? You gave birth while in Moncayo’s care?”

The emptiness rises up her throat, smothering. Her vision blurs with hot tears. “He was premature, stillborn.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” She replies, but a sad smile plays on the edges of her lips. She wishes she could still hug him. She wishes the years and the trauma would just melt away, leaving them bare and unburdened. 

The last few days are little more than a haze to her, an indistinct whirlwind of emotion, but as the memories come filtering back, one by one, the burden on her soul grows unbearable.

She left him.

How could she leave him? How could she let herself be saved?

“You never answered me, Philip, is Elisabeth well? It has been too long a time.”

“Too long.” Philip agrees. He is watching her closely, hands light around hers like they might shatter in too strong a grip. “She is well, but her residence for the winter is hers and my son’s alone.”

She understands only too well what that means, and prying would only cause them both more harm than good. “Walk with me, brother.” She asks him gently. “Show me your grounds, you have often spoke of their majesty.”

He smiles at this, a little raw, a little discerning, but he rises and offer her his arm. “First you should be dressed, Ana. It would be more than inappropriate for us to be wandering the gardens with you only in a nightdress.”

She laughs, embarrassment colouring her cheeks. She had forgotten.

“I’ll summon a tailor to have clothes made for you. In the meantime, there are some of Elisabeth’s dresses left in the palace. She is of similar size to you.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Philip.”

“I’m just glad to see you safe.” 

Elisabeth’s dress swims on her. It’s an elegant thing of emerald silk and pearly lace, although the difference in style makes her self-conscious. The handmaidens manage to cinch it tight enough to cling to her waist, but the dress slips off her shoulders, baring her collarbones. After a time, she gives up with a sigh and waves them away, leaving her hair a mess of tumbling golden curls. She tugs the furs off the bed and wraps them around herself, unwilling to succumb to the chill of the air.

Philip stifles a laugh when he sees her. “Playing dress-up again, sister? We aren’t children anymore.”

She raises her chin to him, mock indignant. “None of us every truly stop being a child.”

“I’ll have the tailor in your rooms by this afternoon.” Philip assures, and loops his arm through hers. “Now let me show you the gardens.”

They have changed, although not drastically, since she was a child and roamed them with a smile on her face and sunlight in her hair. Philip seems to favour deciduous trees and stone footpaths over the flowers of their youth. The leaves crunch pleasingly beneath their feet, lining the paths in russet.

“I must send word to Louis.” She says after a time. The thought had been brewing in her mind, but her freedom was so fresh, so unexpected, that such a move had seemed rash. She was safe now, that is what mattered. 

“Of course, but I doubt he will easily accept a missive of mine.” Philip pauses, thoughts flittering across his face like butterflies, fragile and elusive. “He never sent word of your disappearance. The gaps between our countries are vast, and not lightly breached.”

“You didn’t know?” She asks faintly.

“I thought you were in Paris. Admittedly, the silence in correspondence was disappointing, but hardly unusual. Affairs of State leave us both bereft of time.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“My dear,” Philip chuckles, “you have  _ nothing _ to apologise for.”

She laughs emptily.

The guilt that lurks just out of the corner of her thoughts, slowly corroding her. It takes the form of d’Artagnan’s eyes, of the line of his mouth, of the scars striped down his back. 

She can’t bring herself to shatter her accord with Philip. So long they had spent apart, separated by politics and circumstance, and so long she had spent wishing for freedom, there is a desperate selfish part of her that wants to keep the peace.

And everything else screams because d’Artagnan is not by her side.

He is far from her, still trapped in servitude and solitude. It’s her turn to save him, and she finds herself unable, yet again, stuck within the societal walls of her position and her gender. Weak. 

She hates feeling weak.

She takes her time drafting the letter to Louis. She doesn’t know how to phrase it, what words to use. She suspects he believes her dead, or was convinced to believe. It seems akin to the poison the Cardinal would whisper into Louis’ ear, that he should think her dead and move on. He owes her little, if France has divorced her as their Queen and he wed again.

_ A year is a long time _ , she tells him, her hand shaking a little as she forms the words.  _ Whether you still think of me, I cannot know. Just know that I am alive, and recently safe.  _

Her sentences are fragile, flimsy things, difficult to hold up to the light or weather a critical eye. They are simple and raw, laid bare 

_ If you have moved on, I shall make no fuss. I have no heir to hold claim to your throne, and no desire to further upset the balance of France’s power. _

_ I leave my fate to your judgement. My survival is a secret for you to hold or disclose at your will. _

She signs the letter simply, and lets it dry open on the desk in her room.

Philip has a messenger pick it up the next morning. 

Her new dresses are satin and silk, thick robes and furred collars. Lace cascades from her shoulders, jewels encrust her hair. She begins to feel like a queen again, like herself.

Every day she gets hollower.

She waits for her verdict.

She goes to write a letter to Captain Treville, can’t form the words. How can she say that to them, how can she tell them that she abandoned him, that he’s alone and helpless, and she’s uncertain if he lives? 

Ink stains her hands for days. To her, the black is a haematic red.

Philip doesn’t seem to notice. He is protective, in his own way. Every time the subject of d’Artagnan or Santiago gets brought up, he diverts the conversation or shuts her down.

“These are not subjects to be discussed. I have made my decision. You have to heal now, not reopen old wounds.”

She doesn’t even try. Dark eyes prey on her thoughts.

She regains lost weight. The day she can no longer see the spacing of her ribs beneath her skin, she cries. Colour returns to her cheeks. Some scars begin to fade. The wound in her soul grows deeper.

Winter settles deep into the country, ice creeping along windowpanes with crystalline fingerprints. The trees are skeletal against the wide grey sky.

It’s late on a freezing evening when a commotion erupts in the palace hall. She gently places her book down, tucking her robe tighter around her as she moves towards the window. She peers into the darkness, squinting against the warm glow of her fire. Lights move below her, flickering friendly flames. She can just make out the shape of a carriage as it is drawn down the driveway, surrounded by men on horseback. It pulls up at the entrance, and a flood of light suddenly illuminates the soldiers. Colour bursts into her vision. 

Her heart stops.

Musketeer blue.


	17. Promises, furious joy, and the threading of silk and anger

When the news comes he is on duty.

The messenger races up to the King, face flushed and arm extended shakily. 

The air feels electric.

Only weeks before, Athos heard a knock on the door. In was leisurely, calm in a foreboding manner. The door had seemed to loom in the dim flickering candle light, and Athos, only a little tipsy, had pulled himself to his feet and wrenched it open.

Aramis stood, shadows caressing the depths of his face, hair limp, hat clutched tightly against his chest, and all he had said was,

“I’m sorry.”

Athos had been frozen for a long minute, itching to reach out to the other man, some bizarre longing to hold him and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. The notion came and went, somewhat whimsically. He decided he must be more drunk than he thought.

He turned away from Aramis, “well, come in then.”

He had toyed with his rosary as Athos poured him wine. The moment had seemed elongated, an eternity of the quiet slosh of of the bottle and the dancing candlelight. The room had felt too empty, too quiet. The world felt lopsided, like everything was shifted just a little bit wrong.

He said nothing as he lowered himself into his seat, watched as Aramis took a swig of his drink, the lines of his throat accented by darkness. Aramis sighed deeply as he placed the cup down, swiped a hand across his mouth. He had looked directly at Athos, eyes deeply brown, rich with golden streaks like the grain of wood. 

“I can’t stay any longer.”

“The door is behind you.” Athos gestured limply.

He had shifted uncomfortably, lines knit between his brows. “That’s not what I meant.”

Athos inclined his head. Impatience rippled through him. “Don’t be coy, Aramis. Speak your mind.” 

“Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.”

“You came to quote Latin at me?” Athos had chuckled derisively. “You could have waited ’til morning.”

“This couldn't wait until morning.”

“You want to leave, right?” Athos asked, brusquely. “You want to leave Paris?”

“I want to leave the Musketeers.”

The silence that followed had seemed filled with murderous intent. Athos sobered in an instant. “You want to  _ leave _ .” He said, as if ‘leave’ had changed its meaning within the intervening moments.

“I  _ have _ to leave.” Aramis said, as if the distinction mattered.

“You  _ can’t _ .”

“Athos.” He sighed, his eyes hooded and dark. His fingers twisted together in some mockery of prayer.

Athos could barely think, barely breathe with the fury and sorrow roaring through his head. “ _ Damn _ you, Aramis. Don’t you  _ dare _ talk to me like that.” He had sprung to his feet, unable to keep still.

“I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.” He sunk back in his chair

“You have to.  _ All we have is us. _ ”

“This is different.”

“ _ All we have is us _ , Aramis. I can’t lose you too.” He said, and he knew the pain leaked through his voice, desperate and pleading. “I can’t lose you.”

“And I can’t stay.” Aramis countered, eyes wild, hand white knuckled on the edge of his seat. “Not where I can still see him in the streets, not where I can still hear her footsteps in the ballrooms. Not when I can still imagine what could have been.”

“You said you didn’t love her anymore.”

“I don’t. But I love him.” And there was a blurring of lines between the brother and the son, the one who was and the one that could have been. Athos couldn’t make the distinction, couldn’t see where Aramis’ heart lay. “I loved  _ him _ .”

“And we you.”

Aramis looked away, face shrouded with uncertainty and pain.

“None of us are going to hell for  _ that _ , Aramis.” He offered up the words like a sacrifice, an admission of shared guilt, of shared love. He gave him the words as a bridge over the gulf that divided them, the churning chasm of uncertainty, because Athos truly didn't know if he could see his Aramis any more.

And when Aramis didn't reply, when his eyes skirted away and his breaths came quicker and the shields around him seemed to thicken; The silence seemed damning then, utterly and completely damning.

“Are you intent on this?” Athos asked, even as he thought he knew the answer. Aramis always threw himself into everything. Everything was  _ utterly _ and  _ completely _ , nothing but his whole heart. Which meant Athos had nothing but his whole heart to lose. “At least let me fetch Porthos. Give us that.”

“I would give you everything if I could.” Aramis replied and his eyes caught against Athos’, and Athos could see snow in them, looming tangled trees and crumpled bloodstained bodies. He saw pain in them, loss and pain, but most of all he saw overwhelming, heart-breaking love.

“I don’t need  _ everything _ .” Athos whispered in reply, and he was not certain Aramis heard him, but he had pulled his cloak from beside the door, let it wrap around himself, a mockery of warmth, and he hoped, hoped with every bit of his being that Aramis would be there on his return.

Because he didn’t know what it would mean if he wasn’t. He didn’t know how the world would turn if he wasn’t.

Porthos had arrived with a crease in his brow and silence on his lips. Just inside Athos’ apartment door he had caught sight of Aramis, the man slumped and defeated at the edge of Athos bed, and he had frozen.

Athos stifled a grunt of irritation, and pulled two chairs towards the bed. Porthos, promptly ignoring them, shuffled the cloak off his back and knelt before Aramis, almost uneasily. 

“What has Athos told you?” Aramis said distantly.

“Enough.” Porthos replied gruffly, and seems to take this as his cue to wrap a hand over the back of the other man’s neck. “If this is truly what you want…”

Aramis huffed out a laugh and looked up. Athos’ heart stuttered as the light caught those eyes again, making them blaze golden bright. For an instant Aramis looked angelic.

“Need.” He said again, like it made any sort of difference.

Porthos’ hand had slipped, tracing the curve of Aramis’ jawline, playing in the shadows of his smooth skin. “If this is truly what you need, mon ami. We won’t stop you.”

“We’ve lost him. We aren’t  _ us _ anymore.” 

“Aramis.” Porthos said, pained.

He shrugged emptily. “Look at us, Porthos. Tell me I’m wrong.” It was somehow both cutting and broken, a plea of glass shards.

“Aramis.” Athos said, and he could hear the fragility in his voice. “For once in your life could you hold your tongue.”

“Athos.” Porthos shifted towards him.

“For God’s sake, Porthos.” Athos had snapped. “None of it matters anymore. He’s long dead. He  _ has _ to be. And even if Aramis doesn’t leave now, he  _ will _ leave.”

“Don’t say things you can’t take back.” Porthos growled. And for an instant, Athos swore he could see an eternity in the other man’s eyes, but it was getting harder and harder to know his brothers.

“Don’t you see?” Athos said desperately. “He has to be dead. Because if he isn’t, what does that mean?”

Aramis looks up at him, pupils blown wide in the dim light, utter sorrow drenching the features of his face.

“A year, God knows where, in the hand of kidnappers and murders. Stranded alone with someone he has sworn to protect. Are you beginning to comprehend what that means?” Athos paused, and he knew his intensity was carved into his eyes. “Do you understand why I wish him the merciful peace of death? Because if we have not condemned him to death, we have stranded him in  _ hell _ .”

“If you have a point to make, Athos…” 

“We  _ aren’t _ us anymore. But we can’t change that, Aramis.” He had felt the fight drain out of him then, spilling out with his words, leaving him listless and empty. He took a swig of wine.

“We won’t stop you from leaving, Aramis.” Porthos said finally. “We would never.”

They had waited three days. Three days where Athos woke with Porthos wrapped around him, heavy and hot, and acid boiled in his throat. They had waited and Aramis had been a conspicuous void, and they had been so scared that he would never come back that they held tighter to each other then ever.

Promises were made in the space between them, odd informal things, little bindings that wove them closer and made the missing pieces more obvious, but somehow easier to bear.

There hadn’t been an apology. It wasn’t one of those things that you said out loud. Instead, on the fourth morning, Aramis appeared in the Garrison yard, uniform immaculate and with a basket of pastries that he slung onto the table with a laugh. Porthos had grabbed one, ripped a chunk out with his teeth, and grinned, like the sun had come out from behind the clouds.

And d’Artagnan had still been dead. But they were a little less shattered. Athos had clutched Aramis to him, and they hadn't used words, but they all  _ knew, _ in their silent ways.

Now, the King’s lips shape words that quake the foundations of their fragile peace. And another piece falls back into place.

“Anne is alive.”

With the words, black turns to colour. The King’s lips curve in a manner that none had seen in months, he wears a smile giddily, a child in a King’s robe. The missive in his hand is crumpled with the strength of his grip, a fragile piece of parchment that carried so much in the weight of its inked words.

Athos’ cold and still heart flutters in his chest, as something burning has come to rest within his ribcage. With the three small words, Aramis’ rosary slips from his fingers and clatters on the cold hard floor and he does not pick it up. Porthos finds a hand against his thigh, affectionate with familiarity, tight with the wordless communication of hope.

A chasm is closed. Three men are left vulnerable yet again.

It’s all that they know, but it is enough. Aramis almost crumples on the spot, but for Athos’ tight grip on his elbow. His hands tremble, rosary tangled on the floor, clutching to Porthos.

The King doesn’t notice, blind with euphoria. He crows with joy. “My Anne is  _ alive _ .”

Athos can’t breathe. It’s a dizzying vortex in his head, the glow of hope entangled with guilt and uncertainty. Possibilities flicker like guttering flames. He wants to scream, to cry, to laugh, to dance, to entwine himself around his brothers and never let them go. 

Hope is a cruel, cruel thing.

He can barely stop himself from marching up to the King and demanding answers, demanding to see the letter.

Demanding to see d’Artagnan. 

And then the sickening thought crosses his mind. What if his suspicion was correct? What if it was a sacrifice that brought Anne to safety?

_ What if d’Artagnan had given his life? _

A frightening restlessness boils beneath his skin. His thoughts are a kaleidoscope, echoing themselves, reverberating in patterns of fractured colour. All of them are the dark of his eyes, the golden brown of his skin, the colour of dying leaves and drying blood, the damning shade of Musketeer blue.

“We must depart immediately.” The King cries, furiously overjoyed, like Athos’ restlessness has infected him.

“Where to, your Majesty?” Treville asks, calmly.

“Why,” the King grins, “we must return the Queen to her home.” 

D’Artagnan is never mentioned once. In the shadow of the Queen, d’Artagnan is lost.

Aramis and Porthos are worried, he can see it carved into the corners of their faces, and rightly so. Their world has been upended again, solid ground tugged from under them. They had a carefully constructed peace, the knowledge of d’Artagnan’s death had been painful, but they’d built up some sort of stability. Now everything is in flux again.

Anne is safe.

D’Artagnan is still missing.

But soon they will know.

Athos wishes, the most infinitesimal thought, that the letter had never come. That they had built a world of assumptions, and kept on living. That d’Artagnan stayed dead. The wave of guilt and pain that comes after that thought is enough to entirely wash it from his head.

“What do we do now?” Aramis asks at some point, as they sit around the garrison table, heads bowed, silence filling their cracks. Or perhaps it’s just a shared thought, echoed between them like a plea,  _ what do we do now? _

And Porthos replies, solemn and quiet, “We find out for ourselves.”

They don’t say his name, because that would be admitting the absence, and they are only capable of those sorts of truths under the cover of darkness and liquor.

The convoy leaves late in the week, just as the light reaches its zenith. It’s over a year later, and they ride out under expansive grey skies, still unknowing, still heart-broken.

The King’s carriage slows them down, weighted with heavy robes and heavier politics. It takes a month before they cross the border, longer to make it to the Spanish palace. Winter settles itself deep into the land.

It’s late on a cold night when they reach the palace, the wrought golden gates looming through the darkness, glowing in the firelight.

“Philip.” The Kings greet each other with surprising warmth. Louis lowers his head to touch Philip’s weighty gold ring, impatience making his movements rushed. Philip smiles widely, tucks his hand behind Louis’ elbow and leads him into the palace. Words pass between them, little inconsequential things that Athos can barely hear. He maintains his distance behind the Kings, skin crawling with caution. 

There is no protocol for a situation like this, and the impropriety is grating. The potential of a security threat is particularly high with two heads of state in the same room, and without the chance to have surveyed the Spanish palace and taken stock of weaknesses in defence, Athos has his head reeling with the possibilities of attack. 

“Calm down.” Porthos murmurs into his ear, gently tucking his hand against the small of Athos’ back. “We’re safe. There’s a dozen Musketeers spread through the grounds, a score of the Spanish King’s guard and half a dozen Red Guards. No-one wants this to turn into a bloodbath.”

Athos releases a breath and inclines his head gratefully. With the assurance of Porthos and Aramis’ presence at his side, he lets his mind slide to other matters.

The Spanish palace is grand, sweeping arched ceilings layered with rich murals and accented with gold. The floors are marbled and glistening in the candlelight, echoing with the sound of heeled boots. The sheer decadence is intimately familiar, and still sickening. He eyes the heavy drapes and briefly wonders how many families the cost of the fabric alone would feed.

Ahead of them, Philip throws back his head in laughter, and Louis looks pleased with himself. 

Suddenly there is the patter of bare feet and a figure appears at the top of the grand flight of stairs that lead into the chamber. Her hair is brightly blonde, her figure slight and muffled in a heavy robe, and her face shines inexplicably. She freezes, poised halfway down the stairs, hand hovering over the banister, and her eyes connect with Athos’ for a split second. There is the swiftest impression of intense emotion, a wave of sheer heartbreak, then Louis’ voice breaks the silence.

“Anne.” He says fondly, and opens his arms. 

She picks her way down the stone stairs and throws herself into his arms, laughing. “My lord.” She says delightedly, then, almost if suddenly remembering her manners, she extracts herself and gives a low curtsey.

Louis smiles down at her and grabs her hand to clasp between his. “It would seem we have some catching up to do, wouldn’t you agree, my dear?”

She blushes prettily up at him, every trace of that deep resonant emotion swept clean from her eyes. “Of course, my lord. Just ask and I shall answer you.”

“My dearest Anne, how I have missed you.” 

And there is too much left unsaid.

The Spanish King leads them into a sitting room scattered with heavily embroidered and luxuriously upholstered lounges. The fabric is a rich green and threaded with delicate flowers picked out in pink and gold silk. The Kings’ conversation is threaded with carelessness and laughter.

Athos’ hand tightens into a fist by his side.

Eventually Louis’ attention returns to Anne, poised perfectly by his side, hand curled around his.

“Tell me, my darling, are you well?” 

“Well enough.” She replies. “The ordeal is well and truly behind me, thank goodness.” She laughs airily.

“I don’t need to know what happened.” Louis asserts, “I have no appetite for any sort of violence this late in the evening. Just name the culprit and I shall have everything taken care of.”

Philip clears his throat carefully. “I assure you, Louis, it was chiefly a misunderstanding. I have already dealt with the men to blame, they won't be passing between our borders any longer. As for the man on my side of the border, it was merely a mistake that she was passed into his hands. One that worked in our favour after all. He has apologised for his role in her kidnap.”

“My thanks.” The French King replies. “I’m glad this incident can be put behind us. I have a great wish to move into the future,” he looks down at Anne, a smile spreading across his face, “with my lovely Queen back at my side.”

“Of course.” Philip reassures. “But I believe it is time for me to retire.” He stands gracefully and the Guards and Musketeers dutifully straighten to attention. “I have had a room made up for you Louis, I trust you’ll find it to your liking.” He bends to kiss his sister softly on the knuckles. “Buenas noches.”

“And you, hermano.” She murmurs.

“We shall retire too.” Louis says decisively and pulls Anne to her feet. “We have had a long day of travel. Tomorrow will bring clearer minds and brighter skies.”

Philip chuckles. “Well put.”

The guards open the doors, and Athos and his men stand to the side as the Monarchs make their way through the doorway. Anne slips right past Athos, eyes animated as she talks to Louis, and her fingers gently brush his, sliding a scrap of paper into his palm. Athos contains his reaction, tucking the paper away in his belt with his gaze fixed ahead, but the Queen has done her work, and Athos’ thoughts are more muddled than ever.

D’Artagnan’s name is not mentioned once, but he has an undeniable presence, a lingering absence that chills Athos to the core. He presses his lips tight together in an effort to maintain his calm, his hands trembling as he alone escorts the King to his chambers. 

Once he gets the chance he collapses against the cold stone wall out of sight, shakily carding a hand through his hair. He pulls the scrap of paper from his belt, carefully unfolding the thick parchment to make out the words printed in a delicate hand.

_ Come to my chambers _ . _ We need to talk. _

There is a heavy torch bracketed against the wall, lit with molten flame. Athos burns the note. The ashes smudge his hand.

It is not the Queen who has summoned him, it is Anne.

He finds Porthos and Aramis, explains in halting words. He doesn’t know what to think, what to feel, can’t bear the thought of another heartbreak. He tells them not to come with him.

Aramis says kindly, “piss off,” and Porthos raises an incredulous eyebrow.

They wait until late, when the palace is quiet again, and make their way up to the Queen’s rooms. 

Porthos knocks quietly against the gilded doors, and the Queen lets them in.

It’s an odd thing, standing there with the Queen so slight standing at the base of her bed, the shadows under her eyes accentuated by the firelight. He feels off kilter with the vulnerability she’s giving off, the fragility in the curve of her spine, the pain in the twist of her lips. There’s something in the looseness of her gown, the tumble of her hair, the way that her toes peek from beneath the lace trimmings, that makes him want to turn away, run away. She is too raw like this, too utterly human for him to process. 

He bows, pulling his hat from his head. “Your Majesty.”

“Athos.” She breathes. “Porthos, Aramis.” She lifts her hand out to him, and he grabs it reflexively. “I have committed a grievous wrong.” 

“What’s wrong, your Majesty?” Aramis asks quietly, stepping forward. She glances up to him and her gaze softens infinitesimally.

“I suppose I should begin by saying d’Artagnan is alive.”

A surge of emotion roars through Athos. He feels like laughing, like crying, like screaming to the heavens. He does none of these things. For a moment, the briefest instant, he forgets that he is standing in front of the Queen of France, he forgets his role as a soldier, forgets the constrictions of his society, and he leans into Porthos, lets the taller man wrap his arm around his waist, and he breathes. Aramis’ hand finds its way into his, curling tightly around each other. For an instance, a split second they are whole again, and simultaneously the absence is harder to bear.

D’Artagnan is alive. 

And what that means terrifies him.

“Tell us.” Athos demands. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”

And Anne shudders visibly, face whitening. “He is with the man who enslaved us. He is there alone.” She gasps out, “ _ I’m so sorry _ . I couldn’t — Philip wouldn’t — He  _ saved _ me.” Tears drip down her face, glittering golden, tracing the planes of her face. “D’Artagnan  _ saved _ me.”

And Aramis smiles, just the littlest bit. “We knew he would.”

She wipes the tears away shakily, sniffing and sobbing wetly. “I know where he is, but there is nothing I can do. Philip refuses to help. He wishes for the whole incident to fade away.”

“We have no such aspirations.” Porthos chuckles harshly. “Just point us in the right direction.”

“Santiago Moncayo.” The Queen says, and his name sounds like acid on her lips. “He bought us. He’s responsible for everything.” 

There is an infinity left unsaid.

But they bow to her, to their Queen, to Anne, and they leave. And everything has changed, because now they are angry. They are furious and they are overjoyed and they are vindicated.

Hope winds itself through Athos’ fingertips, and it glows like firelight and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I was overseas where I couldn't post


	18. The patchwork soldier and his horse

When Ana was freed it was Autumn, and the world was dying, shedding its leaves as d’Artagnan was shed of his responsibility. She fled from his dying world with his name on her lips and an arm wrapped as tight around her shoulders as the invisible weight of her duty.

She was a queen again.

He was left with nothing, and no one to blame.

And for a while the world he was left in was enough.

Time was malleable now, seconds passing in hours, days an eternity or a moment. He learned quickly not to trust his own mind, it lied to him more often than not. At night he would wake breathless and wordless, pleading noiselessly to the empty walls with terrors running rampant through his mind. He would heave and gasp, clutching at his throat, muscles spasming in an attempt to run from his nightmares. The pain felt real, burning across his skin in lines and possessive letters, agonising and frightening and so very real.

During the day his attention wandered dangerously, his hand straying from the pommel of his sword and the world warped in his tired mind. The patterns of the upholstery grew, pink flowers unfolding their delicate petals, tendrils unfurling and pollen dancing through the air. The drapes came alive in the wind, the richness of their decadent velvet filling the room with billowing fabric.

And there is no point anymore.

He can feel his will being chipped away, piece by piece peeling away from him, and he watches, detached, as Santiago’s punishments get worse, as he loses blood with his volition and the servants begin to retreat from his shadow.

He still fights when a sword is placed in his hand and when the guards shove him into their ring, their jeers overwhelming and yet muffled and displaced. He fights without passion, ruthless and unforgiving. And they go down, one by one as they challenge him, words little more than garbled sounds, their blades cold as they part his skin and he drips blood into the dirt.

He is a patchwork soldier now, held together by clumsy stitched threads of sanity and duty. For a while it is enough, and there is a rhythm to the meaninglessness, something that could be mistaken for purpose.

It is frustrating and stifling and confusing, because there is no point anymore. He stands there, guard to a man who tortured and enslaved him and he protects that man and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why anymore.

And it scares him.

The woman arrives in a pale carriage that rolls down the long dusty drive at midday. The sun catches the silver top to her cane as she picks her way to the front door, dress a rich cream, a pattern picked out with purple thread. Her eyes, as they trail along the length of Santiago’s body before coming to a vacant rest on his face, are voids, dark and impenetrable. She slowly extends her hand towards Santiago and he pulls it to his lips.

“Condesa.”

“Señor.” Her eyes shift ever so slightly, and suddenly they are caught on d’Artagnan. It’s only a moment, a split second before Santiago whirls her into the house. D’Artagnan follows slowly, skin prickling with a sudden wave of unease.

He stays by Santiago’s side as he entertains the Condesa, but after a time he is dismissed. He wanders the halls of the house, still feeling the woman’s eyes against him, the unease curled tightly in his gut.

The sky is golden as the dregs of the afternoon clouds disappear of the horizon, and all d’Artagnan can feel is the drip of sweat on his skin and the grip of the main-gauche in his hand. He parries and slashes against the cool air, flipping the dagger from hand to hand, keeping his weight low as he fights the shadows in submission.

It hurts less like this, when he can play pretend, when the patch of dirt below him could easily be the cobbles of a Parisian street, and he could be waiting for his Musketeers as they come off palace duty, or duelling outside a pub because Porthos had a bet with a Red Guard. He could be home.

In an instant his attention breaks, and his skin is crawling again, a chill travelling up his spine. He can feel something, a figure perhaps, a presence. He whirls around, and on instinct, the dagger is loosed from his grip. It pierces the air and almost sings as it flies, before slamming, quivering, in the trunk of a tree.

His heart is pounding against his ribcage, a staccato beat that sends his head spinning. He whips his head up, and that’s when he sees her, through the trees, standing framed in the window of the house. The tall figure of the Condesa, hands braced against the window sill, staring straight at him. As he watches, she straightens herself gracefully and retreats from view, and the curtains fall shut behind her, leaving the undulating velvet between them.

D’Artagnan doesn’t move for a time.

When he is called back into duty, he escorts Santiago and the Condesa to her carriage. The woman looks down at him as he helps her into the carriage, and her grip suddenly tightens in his. She smiles, a faint calculating thing that leaves his thoughts swirling, but doesn’t say a word as the horses whinny and tug her away.

And Santiago looks all too pleased.

He is long past caring what it means.

That proves to leave him at a disadvantage.

What he doesn’t know then, what he’ll look back later and understand is that the Condesa is not a nice woman. He will understand that, once again, his life and fate had been traded away for clinking coins and that he is one step further away from his home and his Musketeers. But right then, his world is a cell crumbling around him, and as he pulls apart its walls he only finds more bars.

Rescue is inconceivable.

He’s woken from sleep by freezing cold water. The sheets cling to him, strangle him. He tries to lever himself out of bed, hands scrabbling for grip, but he finds himself yanked roughly out. His knees hit the floor hard. He’s gasping, heart pounding. They clamp tight shackles around his wrists, slipping neatly over the old scars, and through the dripping wet strands over his hair, d’Artagnan can see a sliver of Santiago’s face. The man stares down at him, eyes sharp and dark, face impassive.

D’Artagnan catches his breath, carefully testing the strength of the shackles that bind him, never breaking eye contact. Santiago steps forward slowly and places a heavy hand on the top of d’Artagnan’s head and bows him to the ground.

“I had so much hope for you.” He whispers into the dark. “You could have been magnificent, my beast.” He sighs and his fingers tangle through d’Artagnan’s hair. “If you had only cared a little more. If you hadn’t been broken so easily.” He pulls back, and d’Artagnan can just see the hint of a sharp smile. Then the guards tug of his chains and he is dragged from the room.

He never sees Santiago again.

The Condesa waits ten days. Ten days where d’Artagnan waits in a cell, bare stone and empty but for a bucket of clean water. Hunger eats away at his insides, and his already bare ribs seem stark in the thin light.

She waits ten days, and then the door to his cell opens, and she wanders into the room, like she’s only just discovering him.

“Get up.” She says softly and waves a pale green gloved hand. The silk of the fabric catches in the dim light, sending a gauzy sheen flickering across the walls.

He staggers to his feet, chains clinking behind him.

“All that I ask is that you do as you are told.” She says, and her voice maintains its even lilt, a soft pitch that betrays no malice and no emotion.

“I need food.” He says, and his voice comes out scratchy and raw. “You have to feed me.”

“Someone will bring you food.” The Condesa looks steadily at him, and the air is thick with some sort of intention, something unspoken. “I am not like Santiago Moncayo.” She says finally. “You are not special to me, you are just an able body and I need men in my fields.”

He grunts. “Stolen labour. Stolen lives.”

“Cheap labour.” She replies. “I have no scruples as to where it comes from.”

“Then why _me_?” He asks, and he doesn’t mean it to come out desperate, but he needs to know. He needs to know what his life is worth now. He needs to know what he is needed for.

She sighs a little. “I owed him a favour. He wanted you gone. Too much trouble to be worth his effort.”

D’Artagnan huffs out a breath.

“Don’t expect anything from me.” She continues, smoothing a hand down the front of her lilac dress, settling the darker folds of purple brocade flat against the skirts. Her hand comes to rest against her bodice, perfectly poised. “I have no interest in you if you stay quiet and obedient.”

“And if I do neither?” He laughs breathlessly.

“Then perhaps we shall see each other again.” And those dark eyes with their infinite power assess him again, and perhaps he is found acceptable, because she sweeps out of the room without a backwards glance, door hanging open on its hinges.

It sits there, open and empty, almost like the patch of lit corridor just in his sight is taunting him. For an instant he starts towards it, the light a lure, a promise of freedom or perhaps just food, the chains pulls taut and the shackles are vices, strangling tight around his wrists. He gasps out as they bite into his flesh, and sags to the floor, breath heaving like he’d run a marathon.

Eventually his thoughts trickle back in, catching up to his actions. What if he had gotten out, stepped out of the cell? What then? He has no idea where he is or whether he is being guarded, whether they might kill him in an escape attempt. And if, _if_ he somehow got free of this place, he has no idea whether he’ll be welcomed home.

He was unable to protect the Queen, the Dauphin died under his care and he has been serving a Spanish master for a year. He is a traitor to the crown, and he is worth nothing more than a slave.

And with that he makes up his mind. He will not be welcome home.

The idea of that sends a wave of anguish staggering through him. He might never see his home again. Never feel French soil beneath his feet, never see the winding streets of Paris or the peaked rooftops and green sweeping fields of Gascony. Never hear his native tongue on familiar lips, never feel the weight of the pauldron on his shoulder again.

The weight in his chest aches and the lure of light beckons.

His arms are pulled tight and high behind him, too much of his weight on them, the chains too tight to let him move forward or collapse to the ground. When his hands become numb and fuzzy in his periphery, he concedes and retreats to the far wall of the cell, where the chains are loose enough for him to slouch against the wall. The feeling creeps back into his hands, needling insistently until they become aware enough to feel the trace of blood threading between his fingers.

It must be another hour or two before the men come for him, one skinny and blond, the other broad and brunet. He is so sick of the ever rotating series of men intent on keeping him imprisoned, and their faces slip from his memory easily. They pull the shackles off him and gesture him impatiently forwards.

He follows, feet odd and awkward beneath him, stumbling and pitching as his head swims.

“How long for this one?” One guard asks the other in Spanish.

“Ten days.” The other replies. “He was a fighter.”

“French?”

“Apparently. But he’s a bit thin for a Frog.”

They chuckle together.

“Looks more like a Romani to me.” One says, and the other stills for an instant.

“No goddamn witches. He’ll bloody curse us, and I’m quite content without it raining blood or animals talking.”

The broad one laughs, slapping his companion on the back. “That superstitious nonsense again? Keep it to yourself.”

“I’m telling you,” the blond man insists, “It’s the devil's work.”

“Let it be,” and although the subject is not raised again, d’Artagnan feels the blond man’s eyes on his back.

The men lead him through the house and to the kitchens, where a loaf of bread and stew are shoved towards him. The stew is murky and looks to have odd bits of dark meat floating around in it, but his stomach ignores his mind’s warning as it growls ferociously. He tears of a chunk of bread and scoops up the stew with it. When it hits his tongue it’s too rich, heavy with grease and the bread stale and hard. His gut roils, but he forces it down.

It weighs down his stomach for the time being, as the guards shove him out the back of the house and into the yard. Then there are tools placed into his shackled hands and once again he works, body pushed to the excruciating limit under the cold and weak sun.

But he has survived before, and this can’t kill him now.

Other men and women work beside him, backs broad with muscle and hands calloused. They trade stories softly beneath the eyes of the guards, and he learns of hardships beyond anything he has suffered and of bravery and perseverance that staggers him. In the months they work side by side, he begins to learn other languages, words passed from other continents, smatterings of English and phrases in African and Middle Eastern tongues until he can hold basic conversation in a dozen tongues, and in return he teaches Spanish and French. The loneliness and loss and lack of purpose that had consumed him fades into a distant buzz as he lets his thoughts retreat and the work consume him.

He claims a corner in the barn where they all sleep, and he tries to let himself just exist. It is hard, when night by night without fail he is taunted and tortured by memory and twisted inventions of his mind. But for now at least, the day ceases to be haunted.

The others talk to him, but they don’t grow close, driven away by his scars and the way he holds himself like he will be attacked at any moment. He knows this, and it makes sense, they are trying to survive, and he represents a danger that they don’t understand, that they feel deep in their bones. But he tries to keep his mind and actions under control, tries to remain as unthreatening as possible. Keeps to himself more often than not.

All that changes in an instant.

He doesn’t see what startles the horse, perhaps a snake, some sudden pain, a noise or smell that turns the beast skittish, picking its feet up high and abruptly. What he does see the snatch of a untrained rider’s grip on the reins and the yell that causes the horse to rear back.

He is on his feet in an instant, along with half a score of men, all rushing towards the commotion. The rider quickly bails off the horse’s back, but clutches at the mare’s reins, screaming at the animal.

D’Artagnan’s heart drops to his stomach.

The horse is obviously young and flighty, and with the sudden crowd around her and the yelling of her rider she rears back again, hooves flinging out in front of her. With a crack, one connects with the rider, square in the centre of the chest. The man crumples. Two others drag him back, as the crowd grows tighter around the mare instinctively.

“Stop.” D’Artagnan says, the word falling out of his mouth in French, before he quickly corrects himself in Spanish. “Stop, you’re making it worse.” The men don’t listen, voices crowding on top of one another, louder and louder as the mare wheels around.

“ _Retroceder_.” He yells, and finally the men fall back, almost instinctively following his order. He stands alone before the beast.

The horse rears, hooves flailing, muzzle shining with sweat. She whinnies, a terrified sound that rips out of her chest like a shot.

D’Artagnan’s heart thumps painfully in his chest.

Carefully he steps into the horse’s vision, hands open in front of him. “Come on darling.” He whispers in his native tongue, lets the familiar and dusty words shape his lips with the soothing words. “It’s okay, I swear I will make it okay.” He advances slowly, waiting with every flinch and huff of the mare to take a step closer, carefully within the horse’s vision. Finally, his hands touch the sweat-soaked hair of the mare’s neck, letting his hand trail slowly and comfortingly along its length. He keeps whispering, sweet words, kind words, letting strings of them roll off his tongue in waves of old sound. Eventually the mare huffs again, softer, and pushes her nose into the palm of d’Artagnan’s hand, quieted. He laughs a little as she snuffles, and he traces the patch of white that runs down the bridge of her nose. Slowly he pulls the length of rope from his belt, and loops it around her neck, tying it carefully to leave her slack.

“There you are my darling.” He murmurs to her. “You’re okay, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

A noise behind him reminds him of their audience, a cluster of fieldworkers and guards that stare at him, some mixture of awe and terror.

“I’ll take her back to the stables.” He tells them in Spanish, and one of the guards gestures to follow him.

He tugs gently on the rope, and the mare trots sedately behind him, the terror gone from her wet brown eyes. She tosses her mane a little, like she’s shaking off the experience, and goes along without issue.

He leads her into the stables, tying her up loosely before grabbing a handful of straw from the ground. He takes his time rubbing her down, waiting until he can feel her heartbeat steady again underneath his fingertips. Then, he combs out her mane with his fingertips until it runs smooth and she huffs at him and pushes her nose against his ribs.

He leaves the stable boy with strict instructions to look after her, runs a hand over the length of her neck once more, and then he returns to work.

It’s not another day before the consequences of his actions are realised, an archaic fear reawakened without his knowledge.

He’s awoken by the sound of a dozen footsteps, pounding against the hard dirt floor, flickering lights, and a soft but insistent hum of voices. He’s on his feet before he can think, pushing back against the wall as he tries to orientate himself. Then he’s yanked forward, hands around his arms, clutching at his clothes. He tries to understand what they are saying, a dozen voices whispering, weaving around each other as they pull him into the darkness of the night.

“ _Brujo brujo brujo brujo_.”

The word is foreign to him, one he can’t remember hearing before. He tries to pull himself from their grip, but before he knows it there is rope around his wrists, and the hands are tighter and tighter around him, no beginning or end to the bodies surrounding him. He can’t think.

Suddenly cool night air hits his face, and he can see the moon, full on the horizon, illuminating the forest around them. He jerks his head around, trying to get an idea of where they are taking him and who he’s dealing with.

Suddenly they stop, and he realises they are in a clearing in the woods, grass soft beneath his bare feet. Hands slip away until he is held just by two figures, and the shadowy people face him. They are disjointed bodies, just a slivers of skin and eyes, moving lips. His heart is racing in his throat, but he feels frozen, bound and helpless. If he called out, who would care to hear him?

A person clears their throat softly, and they begin to recite words in Spanish, a drone of sound that with his clouded mind, d’Artagnan is unable to decipher.

“What is happening?” He finally finds the words, spits them out. “ _Damn you_ , tell me what are you doing.”

Suddenly the recitation stops and the person gestures, and something coarse brushes up against d’Artagnan’s neck and _tightens._ He can feel his feet lifting off the ground, slowly, surely, as he is hoisted upwards. He is being hung.

He kicks out, and his captors’ hands fall away. He gasps for breath, but every second it becomes harder as his airway is restricted. Spots swirl in front of his eyes, drifting like glowing dust in the dark of the forest. He struggles against it, grabbing out, reach into the black for something, anything to save him. Slowly the effort becomes harder and harder, his grabs more and more desperate. He can’t hear more that the rush of his pulse in his ears, no idea whether his executors watch him struggle.

A thought flits through his head, _he doesn’t want to die. Not here. Not now. Not like this._

Then suddenly, something slips, and he jolts as he falls. His feet are brushing the ground and when he presses them into the dirt, the rope loosens enough to gasp a breath. Oxygen floods his lungs, dizzying. He has to strain to maintain the slack on the rope, desperately stretching upwards on the balls on his feet. He can feel the exertion tense along the length of his calves and thighs, his strength is waning quickly. With clearer thoughts, he attempts to looks around him. The sky is beginning to lighten, and slowly, above him, he can make out the shape of branches.

He pulls at the bindings on his wrists, but they are too tight to shift. He reaches above him then, and grabs at the rope, trying to pull himself up enough to lift the noose from his neck. The angle is awkward, and his arms scream out in weariness and pain. He lets go of the notion quickly, gasping as his hands fall back in front of him, and he is forced to push himself up on his toes again to avoid choking.

He must lose consciousness for a moment, because his body goes slack, dead weight, and something cracks high above him. Then the tension on his neck disappears and his knees give way beneath him. As he collapses to the ground, there is a heavy thud beside him, then the world goes dark.

When he wakes again, the sun is high in the sky and his body aches, his throat throbbing. He pulls the noose from his neck, but is unable to loosen the rope bindings from around his wrists. He staggers to his feet, and carefully, step by step he walks back towards the house.

_Where else could he go?_

It isn’t long before he manages to find his way onto the fields stretching around the house, stumbling through the furrows with only one goal in mind, get back. He has no idea what he’s going to do. He can’t even fathom what happened to him beyond the burn across the line of his throat.

A couple of hundred yards away, a guard catches sight of him and yells out. Two of them grab him and support him, taking him up through the house and up the stairs. The world is a fuzzy haze around him, the mental and physical exhaustion disconnecting him from his surroundings. Suddenly, there is a set of doors in front of him that swing open and he is pushed through.

He comes to a halt in the entrance of the large room, lit with sun from the large windows along the back wall. Someone makes a small sound, and instinctively he bows low, clasping his bound hands. As he lifts his head, he’s gathered his bearings enough to notice the four figures standing around the desk in the centre of the room, obviously interrupted by his arrival.

The Condesa rises gracefully, and the other three figures turn to face him. “Good afternoon.” She says courteously, “can I help you?”

“I—“ His breath catches in his throat, and his voice betrays him, tangled and stuttering until it dries up completely. What he sees is out of a fevered dream, a betrayal of his deepest longings. It has no place in this room, in the life he has condemned himself to living.

And he looks up to catch the deep blue depths of Athos’ eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go guys! Sorry about the wait, I was dealing with end of year exams and time slipped away. Let me know what you think of the chapter in the comments!
> 
> (Also, if anyone wants to chat or anything, my insta is @scartissuearmour)


End file.
